Show Me What This Life Is For
by plumbobjo
Summary: Stendan AU. School fic. Student/teacher. Eighteen year old Steven Hay keeps catching Brendan's eye and it's becoming increasingly difficult to convince himself that it's just concern for the boy's welfare.
1. Chapter 1

Notes: Written as a request for someone one Tumblr and turned into a bit of a beast! It will only have two parts so it's not overly long and I won't be annoying people with my WIPesess clogging up the entire place. I also feel a bit like it's one of the perviest things I've ever written just for the sheer fact of the setting.

Title from Imagine Dragons - Round and Round.

Word Count ~ 8000

Warnings: If teacher/student squicks you out then this is definitely not for you.

* * *

The first thing he notices about this place is the smell.

It's all damp and must and mould. The building's old, well-worn and scuffed, brown brick exterior and chipping, shedding layer upon layer of duck egg blue paint across every inside fucking wall like there was a sale on for the stuff. There's three huge buildings surrounding a courtyard at the centre, bunch of grass patches and picnic benches and it's a lazy, hot and melting late summer so the place is packed with kids at lunchtime - packed with sixth formers every other hour of the day.

He's lucky; the sixth form is more modern. They've had the builders and decorators in recently by the smell of almost-fresh paint and new carpets. He's _only _dealing with the sixth formers and he's _only _dealing with them for four months whilst their Chemistry teacher's off partaking in the miracle of life. From what he can tell not one of the fuckers wants to learn Chemistry anyway.

They find it particularly, irritatingly amusing that they're learning _anything_ from an Irishman.

"Where are you from, sir?"

"What, you can't tell?"

"Scotland?"

"You kiddin' me?"

"He's from Ireland, dickhead."

"He sounds Scottish."

"Scotland's nowhere near Ireland, in't that right, sir?"

"Got a geography star pupil over here, guys," Brendan drawls, gets a laugh.

They're an alright bunch, mouthy and chatty but he likes that, enjoys the banter they throw his way. It's easy to fall into a repertoire with them, makes his days pass quicker. The staff are okay, mostly his age or older, gets on with some more than others. There's the obligatory two dippy ones and it takes him a while to find out they're sisters - different last names, Fisher and Valentine, neither their maiden names - and he doesn't know how they've managed to get work anywhere let alone here in a school. There's the weary older ones, existing out their time until retirement and freedom.

There's a kind of lazy, deliberate inefficiency here. Everyone's just _settled_, spread across life's rut like rich butter on thick bread - comfort food. There's no drive. Everyone's just - content and stuck that way. It's peaceful in some ways. He wants to bash heads in others.

He gets into a pattern and it takes him two weeks to_ notice._

Although to be fair to him it takes him that long because it takes two weeks for Steven Hay to turn up to his class.

He swaggers in like he owns the fucking place, tie unknotted, shirt untucked, loose and easy and like the summer breeze. The blonde girl, Amy, beckons him closer and he goes but not before he tosses Brendan, his damn _teacher, _a smile that could cut glass.

Brendan gets his bearings. "Who the hell are you?"

"Ste."

"I'm gonna need a bit more than that. I've never even seen you before."

"Might wanna check your register, then."

Brendan cocks his head, can't stop the quirk of his lip. "Might wanna check your tone, boy."

Self-proclaimed _Ste_ looks up at him through Bambi lashes and it's not defiance he sees there, although Brendan doesn't doubt that's what he thinks he's projecting. It's something closer to exhaustion, to age beyond his years. Brendan's seen that expression a hundred times and it's _always _bad news.

He logs it away, won't even be here that long but he's a teacher for a reason and he already carries enough weight around on his shoulders without adding guilt by negligence.

Steven doesn't cause him much bother, mix of absence and general disinterest in anything academic. His work is half-arsed when it appears but Brendan can _see _he has an aptitude for this stuff, can see he's physical, likes to get his hands dirty and play and there's no better subject for that, but he doesn't even try. He chatters on to Amy Barnes and Doug Carter, slopes in late and unapologetic. Brendan keeps meaning to schedule a 'word' with the boy and he checks his diary, tries to find ten minutes but can't seem to find enough urgency to want to give up that much of his free time.

So he leaves it. Three months left, that's all. Steven Hay is probably fine. He's a trouble maker, he's one of the too-cool-for-school crowd. He's fucking eighteen and has no legal obligation to be here. Brendan doesn't have to worry about him.

He doesn't have to but -

- somehow it becomes an itch he can't banish.

* * *

Brendan's so fucking bored.

His eyes swim against ink and paper, names and equations. Leanne Holiday, Texas Longford, John Paul McQueen. Darren Osborne - not as smart as he thinks he is. Brendan would be hard pushed to even give him a D on a good day.

He taps his red biro on the wooden desk, blows out a tuneless whistle, stares out the windows of the lab but can't see much, this part of the school is sunk to basement level and the windows barely peak out over the courtyard. He twiddles his pen round his fingers like a baton and then promptly drops it with a clatter when the door opens.

Brendan rolls his eyes, searches for his lost pen. "What d'you want, Will?"

"I've got something to tell you, sir."

"Make it quick, I'm busy - " He's about to give Will the brush off, gets enough of his whinging in lessons, but when he looks up he realises it's serious. "Who gave you that?"

"Ste Hay," he tells Brendan instantly, thick on his split lip, squinting against his reddening eye.

"Jesus - okay, okay - " Brendan's not ashamed to admit when he's wrong, not ashamed to conclude that maybe this place _has_ made him complacent. "Get to the infirmary, Will. I'll deal with it, don't worry."

Will glares at him and it's pretty cold, pretty unnerving the way he's almost completely dead behind the eyes - another thing he's never really noticed. He leaves the room and Brendan paces and fidgets, feels the tide of guilt start to creep in. His gut reaction has always served him well but nowadays he hasn't the energy to act on it, nowadays he spends too much time feeling empty and fucking revelling in his angst like a martyr.

Isn't that what Eileen had called him? Right before she'd kicked him out and told him to find somewhere else to live, preferably another country if he could manage that one favour.

_Pull yourself together, Brendan. How can you help those kids when you can't even help yourself._

The thought that maybe this half-arsed pit of apathy really _is _the most suitable place for him is a bleak one.

* * *

"Any of you's got Steven Hay for next hour?"

"Why what's he done, now?"

Brendan's hardly taken aback by the assumption - Jack's right, after all - or the blasé tone. "I just need to talk to him about somethin',"

"Think Browning's got him for Biology but it'll be a coin toss whether you'll actually find him in there."

There's a rumble of assent, a little wave of dry laughter around the sofas. _Ste Hay, ah what a tonic._

"Well - if I don't then where do I find him? It's pretty _urgent_," Brendan says and presses weight on the word _urgent. _He needs it, the urgency.

"Probably in the field round the back of the gym. Who was it you caught him out there with last time, Frankie?"

"He had Theresa McQueen's thighs wrapped round him as far as I can remember."

"That's - lovely, thanks for that." Brendan rolls his eyes, sips his coffee, tries to tune out when the story topping starts.

No he didn't know that Steven Hay was a notorious thief. No he didn't know that Steven Hay had slept with more girls than most of the adult male teachers - and Jen. No he _didn't _know that Pauline Hay had turned up to the last parents evening drunk off her tits and sporting a black eye.

He didn't know that but it's another thing he logs away, another important detail in solving this self-enforced puzzle he's getting more and more determined to give a shit about beating.

* * *

He doesn't find Steven in Biology with Dr Browning.

Paul absolutely doesn't want him in his lab, either; that much is certain. Brendan almost wants to loiter around and have a chit-chat with his students just to really piss him off but he doesn't want to get on Mercedes' bad side, the last time he did he nearly ended up with his testicles in the Design Technology room vice. He doesn't know why it's him that ended up taking the rap for Dirk's ill-advised jokes about the two of them shagging against the work bench. The woman's certifiably crazy.

Brendan heads through the courtyard, takes the stone steps down to the grass in a jump and gets a few whistles for his trouble. It's hot out and it looks like Benidorm fucking beach out here with the amount of teenagers laying around like sun-murdered sealife. He's got his shirtsleeves rolled up and his top buttons undone but he's already prickling with sweat.

He heads around the gym and slows, strains to listen for anything awkward because as hilarious as it is catching a student doing something mortifyingly embarrassing he has this absolute need, the kind that he doesn't even want to consider, mull on, poke, scratch or pick at, to _not _see Steven Hay in _any_ state of undress or sexual activity.

There's nothing and he peers round the corner of the building, feels the grain of it under his fingers, fading, white paint over sand blasted stone.

The field spreads out for hundreds of yards, uneven and rolling like waves - completely pointless for doing any kind of sport. There's an incline to his left, a hill that peaks about five foot high and then goes flat on top. That's where he spots Steven.

He's alone and facing away from him, out over the grass, legs spread in a sprawl and knees pulled up, arms resting across the top.

Brendan approaches him, makes sure to kick up the loose grass the field mower's chopped and discarded so Steven can hear him coming, so he doesn't startle the boy. He shifts where he's sat, glances over his shoulder briefly and turns straight back to the view. Brendan stops next to him, studies him and the way the sunlight catches against the blond tips of his hair. He quickly looks away.

"Ain't you supposed to be in Biology?"

"Didn't know you taught that an' all," is the stubborn and typical answer he gets.

Brendan folds his legs under him and plants his arse in the grass. "Yeah, I'm tryin' to steal Browning's job."

Steven looks at him, pleased and surprised curve to his sullen mouth. "He'd kill you before you got the chance."

"Yeah?"

"Well - that or Mrs Fisher would."

Brendan barks an unexpected laugh. "I don't know what on Earth you're talkin about, Steven."

"I'm sure you don't."

He lets silence float like a soft haze, watches out of the corner of his eye as Steven gazes out over the field. He's giving Steven time to get comfortable with his presence but it feels sickly, somehow. Not like usual. He feels like he's taking in too much detail, studying Steven's sun-caught features _too _astutely to feel entirely comfortable with. When he flicks his eyes away he can still see the plush lips and curved nose and soft skin like it's superimposed over his vision.

"You punched William Savage in the face," Brendan states, not an accusation, just a fact. He pulls blades of grass between his fingers at his side. "Wanna tell me what that was about?"

"He was askin' for it."

"Nobody asks for a beating, Steven."

Steven turns to look at him sharply. "That right?"

He's clenching the fist of his right hand where it's laid across his knee and Brendan's eyes are drawn to it suddenly by the movement. Steven's shirt's folded up to his elbow and there's a bruise suspiciously like a handprint peaking out from under the watch strap on his wrist.

Steven sees him looking and Brendan panics, tries to catch him before the boy shuts down on him, says, "that's right, nobody. Whatever Will did - " and Steven scoffs, shucks his loose sleeve down over his hand.

"He slept with his brother's girlfriend, my _mate's _girlfriend."

"You can't go around hitting people, you'll get kicked out and then what?"

"Maybe I'll sell it on the streets, Mr Brady." Steven wields words like a weapon with cutting intent and Brendan's shocked by how deep that cold cynicism runs in him. "People always tell me my mouth's only good for one thing - "

"Steven," he blurts out, sharp and loud and he doesn't mean to say it at all.

Steven just watches him coolly, seems completely uninterested and he wears the mask well but he's still an eighteen year old boy and he isn't as hard as he wishes he was. One day he will be, Brendan's sure of it. One day the world will carve out all his soft flesh and over the years the raw scabs will turn to well-worn scars until there's not a single nerve ending left to process pain. Looking at Steven is like going back in time and looking in a mirror and the boy's future is pretty clearly mapped out to him.

"What? Don't think I'm pretty enough?" Brendan's ready for it this time, though. It doesn't send him reeling this time.

"I think you're better than that. I think you _want _to be better than that," he says smoothly and Steven narrows his eyes like he's heard that one before. "Some unlucky bastards get dealt the worst cards in life but that doesn't mean they give up, just means sometimes they've gotta fight harder."

Brendan lifts his knee, lays his arm out straight over the top of it in a mirror of Steven's position, turns it over until the sunlight catches on the small, almost invisible, circular scars peppered across his skin. It's only in brightness they become clearly visible, fucking ironic that light and heat makes them glow, and Steven looks, eyes focusing in like they're a beacon.

He watches Steven's throat dip like he's forcing it down.

"You have to apologise to Will or I'll have to get the Head involved. He'll be callin' in your parents, maybe the police - I don't wanna see it happen, okay?"

There's a long pause and then a soft, "okay."

"You might wanna start thinkin' about showing up for Chemistry, too. I don't give out too many compliments but you've got a knack for it."

"You jokin'? I can't even say half those words let alone spell 'em," Steven scoffs and it's dry, cutting but inwardly this time.

"That's because they're stupid words; nobody can spell them. That's why we shorten them," Brendan drawls easily and Steven softens. "Come on, it's the only subject where you get to basically use that crappy text language all you lot use instead of English."

Steven seems to consider him, soft twist to his mouth. He holds out his hand slowly. "Okay, I apologise to Will and come to your lessons and you don't get me arrested. Deal?"

Brendan can't help but shake his head at this kid's gall. He's fucking cheeky as hell and appealing with it, thrilling in his insolence and set off against his fragility. He's got light in him and Brendan can see it trying to push its way out of all those tiny wounds, all those cracks he tries to paper over with sarcasm and indifference, the two things that the very air in this place seems to be made from.

He takes Steven's hand, warm and elegant, long fingers and rough palm, and a spark shoots out from the point of contact, races its way up his arm and into his suddenly pounding heart.

"Deal."

He doesn't like the way it comes out like a dry choke.

* * *

Brendan wants to revise his earlier assessment.

Steven Hay _is_ causing him bother.

It's just not the kind of bother he'd anticipated.

Not ever.

Just because he shows up doesn't mean he listens. Just because he and Brendan had made a deal doesn't mean he doesn't cheek him like nothing on Earth, in fact it's like he takes _joy _in it and not the usual teenage kind of joy - sniggering with his mates after a stern telling off. It's like a fondness, like he's caught onto Brendan's wavelength and he enjoys the conversation. It makes it difficult to look at Steven like a student and that in itself is a danger.

Once he starts _noticing _things he can't stop. His complacency starts to drip away with his new resolve to be a more efficient member of humanity and he watches more, listens more. The effort feels good, like exercising muscles he hasn't used in a long time. After every day he feels like he's done a vaguely satisfactory work out. It just brings with it some frightening consequences.

For instance: Steven's got this laugh. It sounds like a trumpet player with asthma. He notices it and then he notices he doesn't use it that much with his friends, although God love them they try for it. He uses it when Brendan chastises him for something stupid, he uses it when Brendan drawls at him sarcastically _it's not supposed to be on fire, Steven, but nice try. _On one memorable occasion Brendan heard it ring out through the whole class when he managed to spill an entire flask of ethanol all over him, shock of freezing cold shooting up his hand.

In fact, the more Brendan... _notices _the more he realises Steven hardly engages with the people around him at all. They gather and talk and nudge him for approval but it's like they don't exist. It's like they're petty arguments and who-fancies-who is meaningless to him, like he's not _like _them. Steven loses himself in gazing off like he's trapped, alone, in some kind of fog that nobody can penetrate. It's something else he recognises, that detachment. It's easy enough to tell himself that's why he watches, that's why he takes extra care with the boy. He's vulnerable and that's his damn job.

It's easy to tell himself that but it's harder to make himself believe it.

* * *

"Mr Brady."

_Mr Bradeh._

Fuck. It shouldn't send heat under his ribs like that.

"Yeah, what is it, Steven?"

He's sat on his desk, looking out like usual, out at the small strip of sunlight he can just about see through the sunken windows.

"Umm - I just wanted to - I thought I should - "

Normally he'd be saying _spit it out _by now but he can't, not with Steven. He has the overwhelming urge to touch and before he's conscious of it he has a hand on Steven's shoulder. "Hey, what's up?"

"I'm leavin' the school."

Brendan's struck dumb for whole seconds, feels the fingers of his hand start to dig into Steven's shoulder against his conscious efforts. Eventually he grinds out a quiet, "why?"

"Gettin' a job."

"That's - it's a bit sudden, isn't it?" It wasn't what he was expecting at any rate. "You've only got a year to go and you're more likely to get a job with a few more qualifications behind you."

"I need one now, though," Steven says softly and he raises a hand, fiddles his bottom lip between his fingers.

"What's the urgency?" There's that word again. He bloody well _feels _it now, urgency coursing through him like his rushing blood.

Steven looks at him, soft expression like wanting, wanting something, to tell maybe, to unburden himself. Wanting -

Then he shuts down, right in front of Brendan's eyes. "What's with the twenty questions? I'm only 'ere to let you know I won't be comin' to your lesson anymore - "

He tries to move away and Brendan's hand slips from his shoulder to his wrist, same wrist he saw the bruise against but it's gone now, abuser wasn't careful enough that time - won't make that mistake again for a while. Not until the next time control slips and they do. Hope upon fear there'll be enough of a mark to make _someone _just _notice. _He wants it. At the same time he doesn't.

Brendan doesn't even know who he's monologuing about in his head anymore, line between himself and this boy terrifyingly blurred because he's suddenly desperately afraid of losing something that's slowly building back his self-belief and it's affecting his judgement.

"Get off me - " Steven struggles in his grip and Brendan instantly releases him like he's been burned. "What the - "

"Sorry, I shouldn't have touched you," Brendan says quickly, firmly. He pulls up his years of experience and uses it to ground him, to stop his tail-spinning. "I'm sorry."

Steven looks at him like he's never heard those words in his life, eyebrows turned down in a confused frown. He swallows, bites his lip, flicks his eyes over Brendan's face, lashes fluttering, soft smudges of black against his skin. There's a word for this boy - beautiful - but he won't let it get any deeper than the surface, can't let it take root and grow into anything more than just a complimentary verb.

"I'd just like you to consider this, okay? I don't want you to fall at the last hurdle."

"Why not? Why do you even care? You care about this place less than I do," Steven states, not an accusation just a fact.

A statement Brendan's not surprised to hear. The boy's a watcher, he takes things in, notices how people behave. Brendan had thought as much. Not like his peers; he doesn't know the luxury of repose and they don't know the toll of constant hyper-awareness, the ever-present fear of knowing how but not _when._

Unfortunately Brendan doesn't know how to answer his question. He could go the after-school special route - I know how you feel, son. I can _relate._ He could say something cheesy like _I can see myself in you. _Or not. Absolutely not.

"Forget it - " Steven moves away again and Brendan hops down off the desk, _urgency_, and throws himself in front of him, skids to a stop with his back thrown against the door and his hands up. "What, I can't leave now?"

Fucking infuriating.

"Will you just listen to me?"

"You're not exactly sayin' much, _sir._"

"You've got some mouth on you, you know that?" Brendan asks roughly, irritation leaking out through his voice, temper fraying, mix of anger and confusion and wrongwrong_wrong._

Steven narrows his eyes, gets that real nasty look about him, practically purrs, "it's been said," and he's leaning in, so close, body heat bleeding all up Brendan's front, soaking through his thin shirt. Brendan watches in fascination as Steven's expression falls from angry goading to soft, slack surprise. Whatever he sees in Brendan's face, fucking doesn't have a clue what he's throwing out there for the whole world to see right now, reeling too much from the intensity of actually _feeling _something for the first time in so long, he's shocked by it.

He knows what's about to happen before it does. He needs to stop it but he doesn't know how.

Brendan's frozen in place when Steven leans in, unsure and shaky as hell but suddenly right there, less than an inch away, lips parted and so soft looking, so appealing, so - so fucking eighteen and his student.

"Steven - " he whispers, turns his head ever-so-slightly away and feels Steven's lips drag across his jaw,_ Jesus, _feeling of it shooting straight to his dick.

He daren't touch, not even a finger. If he did it would all be over. Steven pulls back slowly, blinking and wide open and mortified. Brendan wants to say something to make it easier for him but he can't even summon words.

Steven finds some first. "I'm sorry - "

"You don't have to apologise."

Steven looks at him again, broken desperation, before the shutters come back down, blank and cold and hard. "Can I get past?"

Every instinct screams at him not to let this boy leave but he needs space, desperately. Space or he's going to do something stupid.

So Brendan moves.

And Steven leaves.

* * *

He sits in his flat and drinks whiskey from the bottle and stares blankly at the TV for about two hours before he realises the thing isn't even on. It doesn't need to be since there's enough moving images of Steven Hay in various states of undress, arousal, orgasm, post-coital and cuddling running through his brain like an _actual_ TV show. No matter how much whiskey he drinks it won't dull the vibrancy of them, no matter how much he tries to push them out with the mundane, shopping lists, doctors appointments, visit Cheryl, phone the kids, none of it pushes out those pictures.

How he's going to deal with this fiasco, he doesn't know. He has less than three months left and Steven's leaving the school to get a job, for reasons unknown, and he shouldn't even care regardless of the time he's got left. His decision to be a more productive teacher was a stupid fucking decision anyway. Clearly.

But he's worried; Steven just up and deciding to leave like that, the constant presence of someone else behind his eyes, the fact that he'd tried to _kiss _his teacher, possibly the first adult that had ever shown him a genuine concern. It's wrong on so many levels, a cry for affection at best and a desperate display of worryingly destructive behaviour at worst.

Christ if he didn't want to kiss the boy back, though.

Brendan has a type, he knows this, it's just one of those pieces of human behaviour, another thing he's dryly catalogued about himself in his more self-deprecating moments. Eileen had thrown things at him when she'd found him in bed with Macca but weeks later, when she'd had time to calm down, she's scoffed and rolled her eyes and said _well at least he's pretty - makes me feel a little bit better. _Brendan has a type and Steven's it, he'd known it from the moment he'd seen him and kept his eyes off accordingly. Except when he'd _had _to keep his eyes on because of aforementioned worry. Catch-22. What do you do?

He sucks it up, that's what. He goes to Steven and talks to him, convinces him to stay in the school, tells him it's okay, the kiss, they can forget it. Move on. Brendan doesn't want anything in return for wanting to help him for fucks sake. That's not how it works, despite what Steven might have been raised to believe and isn't that a terrifying thought.

Tomorrow he'll go the office, find out where he lives - in a completely not fucking creepy way - and pay him a visit.

But tonight he'll drink himself into a stupor. That's step one of his plan.

* * *

Nobody asks him why he's as grey as trampled snow and talking through a cheese grater the next day.

They know. It's not the first time one of them has turned up to this place still fucking drunk and it won't be the last. He gets through his morning lessons, lays sprawled out across his desk with his head hanging off the end all lunchtime. In the afternoon he has Amy Barnes and she looks suitably depressed without her best friend and after class he asks to see her, wonders if it might help.

She looks at him with wide, wary eyes like he's about to slap her or something.

"You're not in trouble, Amy. I just wanna ask you about Steven."

"Oh."

She's a bit grey herself, come to think of it. Sickly looking and holding her stomach, rubbing a thumb low on her abdomen.

"I know he's left, I just wondered if you can tell me anything about it?"

"Why would I?" she asks defensively.

"Because I'm worried about him." It resonates in her, she's clearly worried about him too and he wonders how much she knows but he won't ask, won't break Steven's trust like that, not in either of them.

She jigs a little, bounces her leg and looks like she's itching to say something so he waits her out patiently. "He said his mum said he had to get a job 'cause - " Any halts and he sighs, _please Amy, _and she relents like it's forced out her in a rush. "Because she said if he got her some money then she could leave his step dad."

Step dad.

"Thank you, Amy, really. I'm gonna sort this, okay?" he tells her firmly and she looks like she might believe him, relief and hope.

She leaves the lab and his headache pounds behind his eyes like a persistent drumbeat. He's got the address, rough part of town, doesn't particularly want to take his car up there but needs must. He doesn't know what he's going to say. The boy's eighteen and not currently attending school, Brendan can't get social services involved, he can't do a damn thing from an official standpoint. All he's got are his words and his convictions.

He hopes it''l be enough for both of them.

* * *

He pulls up outside the house, scruffy semi-detached with drying, calf-high grass in the front garden and an old, rusted and mangled swing set that looks like it hasn't seen anything other than rain and neglect in years. He leans up against his car, jangles his keys in his hand nervously. If he doesn't play this right he's going to fuck it up and he has a feeling he might only have one shot at this.

He tuts and sighs, whistles a bit. Time to move. He'll know what he needs to say when he gets there, no point in over planning it or making it sound stilted and rehearsed. In the movies all those good-guy teachers speak from the heart, or something. He's no Sidney Poitier and he's not actually sure whether it's a heart that pumps blood round his body or some joy-sucking black hole but he can give that crap a try.

When he knocks there's a certain amount of shouting, woman's voice, high and screechy. She swings the door open and doesn't say a word so he presumes it's him that's speaking first in this exchange.

"Hey, are you Pauline Hay?"

"What's it to you, Scotty?"

"No, I'm - I'm not Scottish - " He can feel his face pull into a scowl. Pointless. "Never mind, look - I need to see your son, Steven?"

Her expression turns nasty, sly and sneering, and she looks him up and down distasteful. "Whatever. Ste!"

He hears Steven's voice call, "what?" from somewhere inside and she shrieks back, "just come 'ere, would you?" and Brendan rolls his eyes, feels like he's in an episode of Shameless. Steven appears in the hallway behind her, soft and rumpled in his grey jogging bottoms and thin white t-shirt, hair messy and ruffled and standing up all over the place. He spots Brendan and freezes, eyes going wide in shock and hand unconsciously coming up to smooth his hair into its usual quiff in a way that makes Brendan's heart kick up and his stomach flutter.

Pauline turns and rounds on her son and Brendan hears her say in a low voice, "this is how you're gonna make me some money? I don't remember tellin' you to go out and suck off strangers for cash."

"Mum - " Steven's furious and he pushes past her.

"This what all you little queers get up to these days?"

Steven shoves Brendan out of the doorway, hard and stumbling back onto the path, and he slams the door in his mother's face, demands, low and rough, "come on."

Brendan follows him, shock and anger through his veins, too rattled to actually speak until they get at least 500 yards away, "where we going?" but Steven doesn't answer him in words, just gestures with a nod of his head up across the main road ahead. There's a long, high wall stretching far to either side of them and a small fence with a hole in it leading onto some kind of playing field surrounded with thick trees.

They cross over and Steven wriggles through the fence, Brendan following, and he leads them out onto the grass towards an island at the centre, almost perfectly round patch of tall grass and thick oaks and bluebells right in the middle of the expanse of grass.

He hears Steven sigh when they get to the edge of it, sees his shoulders visibly loosen, entire posture changing from tense fury to something like relaxation. There's a low, oval shaped stone stuck right in the ground, flat on top, and Steven perches on the edge of it like he's settling in.

Brendan peers around, sweeps his way through the thigh-high grass and flowers, disrupted, white and fluttering dandelion heads erupting all around him when he brushes them aside, catching the sunlight streaming in from the canopy of overhead trees.

"Nice little place," he comments, leans his back against a wide and solid tree trunk.

"It's alright. Grew up playin' round here, me and Amy and Justin. We used to pretend there was this monster that lived in that dark patch up at the top - " He points and Brendan sees it. "It made a weird sound when it walked and we'd run away from it and make it the noise right quick like it was chasin' us." Brendan laughs, takes in Steven's faraway expression. When Steven focuses back in on him it feels like the weight of the sun. "What're you 'ere for?"

"Was worried about you, after yesterday," Brendan tells him, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. "I shouldn't have let you go like that."

"You jokin'? I made a right tit of myself," Steven says with an eye roll and Brendan laughs again, can't help but think that this boy is fearless even if he knows it's not entirely true. There's things he fears but those fears are private and deeply ingrained to the point of invisibility. He snorts, scoffs, "you're not even disgusted."

"No, I'm not, Steven. You didn't do anything disgusting." It's funny to hear himself saying those words now. Years ago he would have smacked the kid in the face, felt the cold horror of wondering if Steven had seen what he'd once thought was a sick and dark corruption in Brendan, if the whole world could see it. "I'm your teacher, I'm not supposed to just let you walk away when you need support."

He looks at Brendan appraisingly, something on his face, knowledge? Confirmation? It's something soft and sly and impressed. Familiar. "You're not my teacher, anymore," and Brendan does not like the way he says those words.

"Yeah, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I wondered if I could persuade you to come back?"

Steven sighs, shakes his head. "I can't. I don't want to."

He says it but Brendan doesn't believe it, not for a second. "You were doin' well, imagine if you got your A levels, got a decent job - "

"But that's ages away. My mam needs money."

"And what do you need?"

It seems to stump him, completely. He frowns and looks down and picks at a fraying hem on his t-shirt. "Dunno."

"I don't say you have to have it all mapped out, hell - I didn't have a clue what I wanted to to with my life until I was much older than you. But isn't there something you enjoy? Something you feel good at?"

"There's this bloke," he starts quietly, so soft Brendan almost can't hear him over the soft breeze. "Tony. He runs a restaurant in the village. I used to wash up for him sometimes for a few quid and he taught me how to cook."

Good with his hands, good with mixtures and reactions. "Used to?"

"My mum made me leave, said I was spendin' too much time out of the house and for not enough cash and she dun't like being on her own with - "

"With who?" Brendan knows but he wants Steven to tell him.

"Terry. My stepdad."

"Right

"She gets it easy when I'm there," Steven tells him and Brendan's blood runs cold and Steven snaps his head away and to the side, wide-eyed alarm on his face like he can't believe he just spoke those words aloud. Brendan knows the shutters are about to come down again; he's revealed too much, desperately blurted out something in an effort to be heard but instantly wants to take it back. Brendan knows that feeling of confusion, that juxtaposition of wanting so bad to talk but feeling ashamed for doing so. It's how abusers work, how they make everything so pointless that hopeless resignation to a forever of the same fear and pain seems like the only option, that anything different is little more than a pipe-dream so get used to it.

"You wanna protect her, that's fine, Steven, that's good," Brendan says quickly, tries to bowl over whatever Steven's thinking in his messed up head. "But you're not gonna be there with her forever and maybe the sooner she realises that the sooner she'll help herself."

"Only think my mum helps herself to is the vodka from the booze cupboard."

"Yeah, well that ain't your responsibility. You're _your _responsibility. You're the one that's gotta live in this world and make the best of it, try and be happy. I _want_ you to make the best of it."

"I don't know."

"Look - just take a couple days to think about it? Please? I want you to _seriously_ think about it," Brendan says with as much conviction as he can, hopes it's enough to drive him.

"Why?" Steven asks on a breathe and there's that question again. Why. He's not asking _what's the point _he's asking _why me, why are you so bothered?_

"Like I said, I'm your teacher."

"Bullshit," he scoffs and slips off the rock and steps closer and Brendan's heart lurches up into his throat and gets lodged there like a gobstopper. Steven kicks up more dandelion seeds, gets washed in a cloud of them, a haze of sparkling motes of sunlight like a dream. "Why am I the one you bother with?"

"Because I - " There's a droning litany in his head. _Do NOT say 'see myself in you'... DO NOT say 'see myself in you'... _

"Did you wanna kiss me back yesterday?"

"No - "

"I felt like you did," Steven murmurs and he's close now, a foot away with Brendan backed up against this solid-as-fuck tree and nowhere to go.

"I'm your teacher," he repeats and _what does that even mean?_ It sounds lame even to his ears at this point.

"You told me to take a few days to think about it. You're not _actually_ my teacher right now."

"Nobody likes a smart-arse, Steven," Brendan drawls, tries to claw back his rapidly flailing composure. It's hard, this boy is fucking beautiful. It was like the Universe created him for the sole purpose of tempting Brendan. Cruel bastard that universe. "Anyway, I didn't think I'd be your thing."

"Why, what 'ave you heard?" Steven asks with amusement. "Pretty sure I know what all the teachers say about me."

"Might have been an incident with Theresa McQueen."

"Fucks sake, that was years ago. They think I've shagged every girl in school."

"Haven't you?" Brendan asks slyly and he can't help it, can't help the pull at the corner of his mouth, the small smirk, he's fucking _flirting _with this boy and what does he think he's playing at!?

"Might 'ave," Steven tells him with a little smile of his own and Brendan watches his mouth, watches the pretty curve of it. "You wanna ask, don't you?"

"Don't know what you're talkin' about, Steven."

"You wanna ask me if I've ever slept with a bloke." Brendan watches his darkening eyes, feels himself respond, feels the air thicken like sweet and sticky molasses until everything feels smooth and edgeless. Steven steps closer, lessens the space between them like a gravitic pull. Brendan feels the heat of him through his shirt, smells the soap and clean sweat and deodorant. His heart pounds an abstract, jarring rhythm against his ribs. He's half-hard in his suit pants, already. Steven's eyes drop to Brendan's mouth, eyelashes fluttering and when he speaks it's so soft and so fucking filthy, "I haven't. No bloke's even touched me. I want it, though."

"Steven - " he chokes out and it's just a sigh, soft and breathy and puffing against Steven's face inches away.

"Please, _sir,_" Steven croons and that's fucking it.

Brendan snaps, feels a physical thing in him _break, _and he grips Steven's hips and spins him, slams him up against the tree and plasters himself all up his front.

"Now, how am I supposed to resist you begging like that?" he asks in a rough growl and Steven gets with it, takes the hint.

"Please kiss me, Mr Brady," he whispers and _fuck._

He slides his lips over Steven's, parts his mouth and pushes his tongue deep, licks inside, slipping, dragging, wet heat. The boy kisses like surrender, opens up and _yields _and Brendan's drunk with it, devours Steven's mouth and takes all that sweetness on offer. He drags kisses against Steven's jaw, trails a damp path down his throat and Steven's shameless moans and breathy sighs are the hottest thing he's ever heard in his life, his fingers digging into the skin under Brendan's shirt across his shoulders the most delicious thrill.

He wants to make him come undone.

"What d'you want, Steven?" Brendan asks because he's not too far gone to need Steven to give him this absolute, iron-clad permission.

He pitches his voice, high and soft and innocent because he knows _exactly _what he's doing right now. "For you to make me come, sir."

_Jesus. _

Brendan grips Steven's thigh and pulls up, bends his leg at the knee and presses his way into the gap between it creates, hard length of his cock pushing snug up against Steven's through his joggers. He watches Steven's expression as he grinds him back, hard and slow, into the wood, watches his mouth fall open in a gasp, his eyes squeezing shut and head falling back to expose his throat. Brendan sucks kisses against the skin there, gentle, doesn't want to leave a mark although he's like to, purple up this boy's pretty skin, paint him like a canvas under Brendan's mouth.

He arches and moans, grinds back helplessly like he's lost in it and with a powerful jolt, Brendan realises it's the first time a man has done this to him, first time someone bigger than him, someone who has the _power _to take that they want from him, has touched him like this and Brendan wants him to _feel _every bit of it, wants him under no illusions of what he's dealing with.

He pushes up with all his weight, pulls Steven up against him, right off his feet, legs clenching tight in panic around Brendan's hips as Brendan lifts him and presses him firmly back against the wood. He holds him with on hand under his arse, fingertips just brushing up against the weight of his balls and when he moves them Steven makes this soft, little sound like a punched out whimper. With his other hand he cups Steven's neck and tips his head for another kiss, another mesh of tongues, addictive and heady and like nobody he's ever kissed before.

Steven's skin is soft where he strokes it, trails his fingers down across his neck and dips into the neck of his t-shirt, flattens his palm against Steven's pounding heart and wriggles his hand in between their tightly pressed bodies.

"You want me to touch you, Steven?" he mumbles into Steven's mouth and Steven gasps, moans.

"Please, Mr Brady, please touch me."

Nothing has ever elicited such a powerful reaction in him before. His balls tighten so suddenly, so painfully that for a second he feels like he's going to come in his pants just from the friction of Steven's rolling body and his words alone.

Quickly, he leans back, keeps Steven pinned with his hips but creates enough space to work his hand inside his waistband and get a solid grip around Steven's cock. He boy bucks against him, _fuck, oh my god, _and Brendan stares into his face and strokes up, up and down, slow at first and then faster, harder, gauging his reaction, seeing how he likes it.

Steven's legs lock around him and his muscles seize and spasm and Brendan strips his dick, rough, hard, slick with a steady dribble of pre-come. He throws his head back and loses it, spills come over Brendan's fingers, moans through his damp and parted lips, eyes squeezed shut against the sensation.

Brendan strokes him through it and feels Steven go slack against him. He leans in, nuzzles against his jaw and cheek and lips, "you okay?" and Steven nods, pants against him and lets out a breathy laugh and Brendan eases him to his feet on the grassy ground. He croons, "good boy," into his skin and Steven breathes, _Jesus Christ, _and jerks against him just once like he can't control it.

He gazes at Brendan through half lidded eyes, touches his shoulders and chest and stomach with shaking hands. "Can I touch you?"

"You are touching me," Brendan says playfully, leans both palms against the tree trunk for support.

"You know what I mean."

"I don't think I do, Steven."

Steven smiles, coy and sweet, lowers his eyes like he's suddenly nervous and _fuck _if that doesn't just do things to him. "I wanna make you come."

If that's what Steven wants then who's Brendan to deny him?

"Yeah, Steven," he chokes out roughly. "Whatever you want."

Stevens' hands skate down his front, pull at his shirt, untuck it and slide up underneath tentatively. He breathes heavy and hot and spreads his palms against Brendan's body, whispers, "can I?" and Brendan nods. Steven fiddles with Brendan's buttons, eyes completely focused on his bared skin, rakes his fingernails through the dark hair on Brendan's chest, dips his head and presses his lips and nose against him, rubs back and forth and Brendan feels weakened by his fascination. His hands make a path down, wrestle with his button and zip and he can't see Steven's face, his forehead is tipped against Brendan's collarbone and he's looking down at what he's doing, but he hears the intaken breath, hears the soft _fuck _when he releases Brendan's hard dick from the confines of his trousers.

He looks up, eyes wide and bright, and Brendan gives him as steady a gaze as he can manage through his straining nerves and woozy vision. He'd never imagined in his wildest dreams how much he'd _want _this, how close he is to begging Steven to put a hand on him. Then he does. He watches Brendan's face intently like he's studying, trying to be a good pupil, _Jesus, _and he strokes Brendan with one firm palm, slow up an down through his long fingers.

Brendan encourages him, _harder, Steven, yeah that's right, that's good, faster, _and Steven obeys every command instantly like they're wired together. He's perfect, eager to fucking please and beautiful the way he watches and Brendan leans heavier against him and the tree, forehead resting against Steven's as he gasps into the space space between them.

"Steven, I'm gonna come, don't stop," he breathes and Steven doesn't, cups Brendan's neck with his free hand and looks into his face.

"Tell me your name, sir," Steven demands and it's not fair, fucker's catching him when he's vulnerable the sneaky little shit.

He blurts out, "Brendan," and Steven repeats it back at him, low and smoky and hot with intent, _Brendan, _and he blows over the edge with a low groan.

It rattles through his bones and blood and Steven's so warm, so sweet and fucking good, good boy, and Brendan's muttering all this out loud, he thinks, and he'll be suitably mortified later. Later if Steven comes back to school and Brendan has to teach him, look at him every day in his shirt and tie and damn fitted trousers. He's an idiot and it's never felt so good in his life.

"Bloody hell," Steven laughs through his haze and Brendan's slumped against him, just about ready to fall over.

"Bloody hell," Brendan agrees.

Bloody hell.


	2. Chapter 2

Notes: So this is now going to be three parts instead of two. This second part is also very long! I'm sorry for the wait on... well... pretty much everything. I promise there really is just one more chapter after this, scouts honour!

Warnings: Child abuse, violence at home, teacher/student.

Word Count ~ 10,000

* * *

He's got the whiskey out again.

Last night he'd had images and fantasies bright in his brain. Tonight he's got touch and smell and taste embedded in his _skin. _He's got the sound Steven had made when he'd come, the part of his mouth and the sweep of his lashes and the legs locked tight around his body. He's got Steven's hands touching his chest, nuzzling through his hair, his fingers around Brendan's cock and the small and breathy _yeah _when when Brendan had told him exactly how to get him off.

He's got Pauline Hay and her slurs and twisted assumptions and Terry Hay and the marks he's left on Steven's skin, on Steven's nature.

He's got Steven saying his name, _Brendan, _like salvation and the guilt because he's not that man, how can he be when he'd gone to Steven to help him and taken more than he'd even offered.

So, he's got his half a bottle of whiskey. Then he's got his _other _bottle of whiskey just in case.

* * *

It takes five days until Steven appears in his lab again.

Brendan's been watching the door out of the corner of his eye pretty much non-stop and it's a relief when it does happen if only because of the mounting pressure of trying _not _to sit facing with his back to his students just looking at the damn thing all day.

Although now he has actually, technically, inappropriately touched one of his students. It should make him feel ashamed and terrified and he's one of those, the second one. It _shouldn't _make him want to do it again.

Steven comes when Brendan's alone, twenty minutes before the lesson starts, fourty minutes into lunch, and Brendan's sprawled across his desk again with something that he thinks might be a hangover but at this point he doesn't even know. He _lives _in a perpetual cycle of anxiety-drunk-drunkhangover-hangover-sober-anxiety-drunk, lather, rinse, repeat ad nauseum.

He has an arm bent over his eyes to block out the dull strips of light from the windows and he only faintly hears the door open like Steven's trying to be quiet and shifty. There's a soft cough and he turns his head and squints and then freezes with his arm hovering over his face.

"Hiya," Steven says softly, shifting from foot to foot, fiddling with his bottom lip.

Brendan pulls himself upright and swings over the desk but doesn't stand for fear he might end up with his face embedded in the tile floor. He says, "Steven," and it's about as eloquent as he feels. He's faintly aware that he must look a state, shirt untucked and rumpled and hair sticking up everywhere. Mad Professor Brady, would you look at that crazy guy? He fucks his students don't you know. Officially.

Well, he hasn't fucked Steven yet.

Yet?

_Jesus_. Still drunk, then. He hopes.

"So, I thought about it."

"Good."

"Obviously, I'm 'ere so - "

"Yeah," Brendan says and knows he has to do better than that. His head bangs and his throat sticks and his dick fucking _aches _already_. _"I'm glad. I think you've made the right choice."

"My mam dun't think so."

"It's not her choice."

"Yeah, well, that didn't stop her drinkin' herself unconscious so that I 'ad to sit up with her all night to make sure she didn't choke on her own sick and die," Steven tells him drolly.

"Wow, point made. Fair enough. She okay with it now, though?"

"To be honest, I don't think she would 'ave left him anyway. She's said it loads of times."

"Yeah, people say a lot of things."

Steven bites his lip and Brendan wishes he wouldn't do that. "Not you, though."

"What d'you mean?"

"You say things and you mean 'em," Steven says softly and steps closer, starts to inch up between Brendan's spread knees, heat from his proximity bleeding through Brendan's trousers.

It's like he can't help himself and he's suddenly touching, fingertips gentle against Steven's hips, hazy like he's in a foggy trance, a thick, thrumming cloud of gently crackling electricity. Steven watches his eyes and mouth and Brendan's struck heavy with how his face changes, expression melting, heat and intent. He moves in slow motion, trails his hands up and drags Steven's shirt out of his waistband as he goes, hasn't touched Steven's skin properly yet and he wants to get his hands on him and Steven clearly wants the same, leans close and brings his shaking hands up to rest tentatively on Brendan's shoulders.

A shadow casts over Steven's features, a flicker of darkness through the faint sunlight from outside and Brendan frowns, briefly, before he jumps back to himself with a shock so cold it's like someone's dumped a bucket of ice water over his head.

Windows. People walking past the windows. Outside. Courtyard. Fucking illegal and _wrong _and _people. With eyes._

Brendan grips Steven's shoulders tightly and bodily removes him from his space, holds him at arms length firmly. "Steven, no - " he breathes and there's warmth under his hands, thin shirt and tempting skin underneath. "We can't do this, you're my student."

Steven looks dazed and blinks and visibly shakes himself. "You worried about gettin' caught?"

"No - well, yeah, but that's not the only reason. Look, I wanted you to come back so I could help you not - not for _this,_" he explains, _tries_ to explain. "I care about what happens to you, Steven, and not because you - y'know?"

"Tossed you off?"

Brendan groans and feels his eyes squeeze shut, head falling forward. "Seriously? You couldn't have just said, _yes_?"

"Well, you didn't exactly mind it when you came round," Steven snaps.

"We weren't sat in a classroom where all the world could see us!"

"Oh, so you wanna go somewhere more private?" he asks but Brendan can tell he's been facetious.

"Look, and this is gonna sound a bit hollow after the other day, but - I can't take advantage of you, okay? I'm your teacher and it's wrong."

Steven looks at him, sighs and rolls his eyes away and turns his head away like resignation and Brendan dips, tries to catch his gaze again. He meets it reluctantly, slants his eyes across and purses his lips.

"You didn't think this through, did you?" Steven asks dryly, sassy as hell, and Brendan chokes on a laugh.

"Oh yeah, this is exactly what I hoped would happen. I love awkward situations."

Steven smirks. "Well, you must be 'avin a ball right now then."

"Think of this as a valuable life lesson, Steven. Teacher's are not infallible," he says, imparts his words of wisdom and Steven looks at him blankly, shrugs his hands out in a gesture of, _what? _"It means - you know what? Look it up. Use it five times in a sentence today. _That's _your damn homework, Hay."

"You're not my English teacher." Steven folds his arms, cocks a hip and Brendan feels it brush against his knee because they're still close.

"No but Miss Minniver is and I'll be havin' words."

"I've forgotten the word, already."

Brendan pats his hand around on the desktop and feels his fingers close around his red biro, says, "arm," and gestures until Steven reaches out. He brings a knee up, foot against the front panel of the desk, and lays Steven's forearm over it. He scribbles _infallible _across the soft skin, feels goosebumps rise up under his fingers and thinks, actually, maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

Steven has to bend his elbow and twist his arm to read it properly and when he does he mouths the word, glances as Brendan with one eyebrow raised.

"Five times."

Steven smirks like a challenge and Brendan thrills all through his blood.

"You're on."

* * *

He has Steven twice a week. Three hours first thing on a Monday morning and two hours last thing on a Thursday afternoon.

The first Thursday, not fifteen minutes after Steven had come to see him, he feels like he's got stage-fright. It's like his first proper day teaching all over again, sweating palms, shaky voice, tender stomach - although that could be the whiskey - and it's an interesting feeling, like he's _bothered _again, like he needs to make his words count.

Steven keeps the sleeves of his shirt rolled down and Brendan knows his ink is under there and that, too, is interesting.

The first Monday morning, Steven looks exhausted. There's dark smudges under his eyes and he's pale as the worksheets Brendan's passing out. He's walking stiffly, curled in on himself and heavy where he leans against the workbench where he sits. When he looks off into the distance he's even more lost than usual.

Brendan gets the group on with a practical experiment and does the rounds and when he gets close to Steven he looks around to see if anyone's watching then touches his shoulder lightly. Steven jumps under his hand, not visible but Brendan can feel him, and he turns back, gives Brendan a tired and washed-out but stunningly genuine smile that makes his knees go weak and his heart _ache._

In the third hour, Brendan gets a laugh out of him because he's made it a mission and he rarely fails when he puts his mind to something. He makes a comment about the state of Darren's number ones - _thought it was a seven, could have blown us all up there, Darren, well done, _and everyone laughs but it's Steven he's really watching, parted curve to his lips and eyes crinkling at the corners for the first time all day. It makes him feel like he's accomplished something for the entire rest of the day which is a feeling he's not all that used to.

So, he has Steven twice a week.

Somehow, and he's not saying it's at all related, Monday and Thursday suddenly just edge out Friday as his favourite weekdays.

Funny that.

* * *

"- next thing I know, the little shit's pulling the chair out from under him."

"He's two strikes away from gettin' expelled that boy."

"D'you mind? That's my nephew you're talkin' about."

"Then, Mercy, _you _have a word with him."

"How was Barney?"

"Think he bruised his arse, maybe his pride, but he's fine other than that."

Brendan drinks his pint, wants to say _well, Bart McQueen's stoned most of the time anyway, he probably doesn't even remember doing it _but decides against it. He's relaxed and loose and it's Friday and he just wants to wind down and enjoy the idle chatter.

"A little birdy tells me you got Ste Hay to come back to school." He jumps at the voice quiet in his left ear.

"Jesus, where'd you come from?"

Anne nudges him across the booth and squeezes in between him and the armrest. "I was stuck back 'avin word with that little sod, Will Savage."

"What's he done, now?"

"Wanted to know if he could base a piece of coursework on that serial killer, Silas Blissett. I tried to talk him out of it but - he's dead set."

"That kid scares me, I'm not gonna lie."

"You and me both, love," she sighs, grabs his pint and takes a couple of huge gulps out of it while he stares at her blankly. "What? Anyway, Ste Hay. How did you do it?"

"How did you _know_?"

"You got me worryin' about him before, what with all your asking about," she tells him and actually looks miffed off that he'd put her through that. "So I had a word with him and he told me it didn't matter since he wasn't comin' back to school anyway. Then he shows up a week later, I ask _why the change of heart _and he said you'd convinced him."

"Yeah, well - he wasn't leavin' for good reasons," Brendan says, keeps it vague. "He realised he was better off sticking it out his last year."

"Well - " Anne picks up his glass and holds it up in front of her like she's giving a speech. "You've got the magic touch, Mr Brady. Not many people have managed to convince that boy to do much of anything."

"How d'you want me to toast, Anne? That's _my _drink."

"Oh."

Jack's voice rings out around the table. "Boss is here."

Brendan looks over, sees Mr Nolan, Eoghan, for probably only the sixth time since he started at the school. The guy keeps himself to himself, doesn't fraternise with the staff much. He's the man in the high castle and he wants everyone to know it. Brendan watches him order himself a whiskey, bar's finest by the looks of it. He can smell it when Eoghan gets close.

"Ahh - my team." He opens his arms out to them like he's welcoming a group hug or something. "Thought I might find you here. Friday evening, drowning your week, eh?"

A ripple of laughter goes around the table, polite and kind of nervous. He doesn't breed ease, this guy; doesn't even try to. Brendan's seen him swanning around in his nice suit, arms out at his sides like John bloody Wayne, patrolling the halls and making kids pick up bits of litter they didn't drop. And once a funny coloured pebble. He's spoken to Brendan once, shaken his hand on his third day in the staff room and held on longer than Brendan had felt comfortable with. Eoghan had given him a sly up and down that he hadn't liked one bit.

"I'll join you if you don't mind," he says and then laughs, smug little sound. "Course you don't, why would you?"

He pulls up a stool and plonks it at the corner close to Anne. She gives Brendan a dry look and he grabs for his drink to hide his laugh in but she's fucking drank it all. She gives him a delighted look and says brightly, "glass of white if you're off to the bar, Brendan," and _fuck him _it's like he'd actually asked or something because ever fucker round the table suddenly has an order for him. There's cash flying at him from all directions and he'd rather like to tell them where to shove it.

"What am I, your waiter?"

"It's okay, Brendan. I'll give you a hand. Us Saints and Scholars gotta stick together, right?" Eoghan says with a wink and a nudge and Brendan would really like to remind him that they're not even from the same country but he doesn't know how far he can push this guy and still get a good recommendation when he leaves.

Instead he smiles even though it feels fake enough to crack and follows Eoghan to the bar with one quick and efficient glare back at his supposed colleagues. Eoghan leans up next to him, far too close, and taps his fingernails against the wooden top.

"So, Brendan," he starts breezily, quite possibly in a way he thinks sounds suggestive. "We haven't had much chance to chat since you arrived."

"Well, you know how it is."

"It's a shame, though. It's not every day I get to meet a fellow foreigner from round my parts."

"That's funny, you don't sound like you're from Dublin."

Brendan holds his breath to stop his mouth running away from him any further but Eoghan just raises an eyebrow at him with a surprised chuckle. "No but I've spent many a year round the place. I know all about you Dublin boys."

"And what is it you think you know about me?" Brendan asks and it's a mistake because Eoghan goes bright behind his eyes, looks at Brendan's mouth like he's said something tasty. Brendan takes a step away, leans over the bar like he's distracted by the barmaid and manages to catch her attention and give her the mile-long drinks order.

When he turns back, Eoghan's still intent, still watching him carefully. "You just look like you enjoy a good time, that's all. The staff are okay but you're a bit classier than those folks, right? I can show you a good time round here, Brendan. If you're up for it."

Brendan gazes back over his shoulder and tries to think fast. "As fun as that sounds - I did promise Anne I'd get her home safe."

Eoghan's expression turns dark and he leans close, murmurs, "well - maybe Miss Minniver could come, too. I'm not averse to making it a threesome," and Brendan scoffs, leans way back and raises his eyebrows, all pretence of politeness forgotten.

"I don't think so, _Eoghan,_" he says with a sneer, grabs a bunch of drinks between his fingers and picks them up. "I think you can manage the rest, can't you? Big man like you."

Brendan walks off before Eoghan's gotten his wits about him enough to answer and has a sinking feeling in his gut that he's going to regret that.

* * *

It's the last five minutes of the lesson, last five minutes of the day, and Brendan always finds his attention waning by this point, it's like he's so finely tuned to his students that when they give up, he gives up. It's dangerous to let his attention wane in this class, though. This is the class he has Steven in and right now Steven is fiddling with a gas tap with those long, pretty fingers of his and pretending to listen to something Douglas is saying.

Brendan thinks about telling him to stop playing, it's pretty dangerous, he might turn it enough to get the gas running, but he's almost in a trance and it's hard to care about the whole building exploding when he can _feel _those damn fingers circling his cock.

"Sir - " He jumps, looks in the direction of the voice and meets Will Savage's suspicious glare. Shit. "It's, _like_, a minute 'til the bell."

"Really, William? Is it _like _a minute? Wow - thanks for that, what would I do without you, ey?" Brendan says gruffly, brushes him off and Will goes back to his stool scowling. "Right everyone, pack up, time to get out of my sight and go where you live."

There's the hustle and bustle of scraping chairs and shuffling bags and the ring chimes out and Brendan waves them off, feels the beginnings of cool emptiness creep into him. End of the day means time alone with his thoughts and only marking to keep him company and it's never enough to distract him from the things that he doesn't have. He's basically _the_ stereotype, living for a job that he's apathetic about at best. Mostly apathetic, anyway, certain worthy exceptions,

He stands and stretches and finds himself walking towards the bench, the fucking _tap _that he's been staring at for the past five minutes. It's no different to the rest of them but for some reason it feels warm and he's fucking _touching _it, what is he _doing? _

"I'll be be a minute, get off without me."

"Ste - "

"You don't need a chaperone do you? Piss off."

He turns in time to see Steven open the door in all his flustered, scruffy glory. End of the day and he always manages to get himself looking like someone's tried to ravish him against a wall somewhere, tie loose, shirt untucked and buttons undone, hair falling over his forehead. He gives Brendan a shy smile.

"Let me guess, you've left something?" Brendan asks dryly, leans back against the bench he was absolutely _not _touching a moment ago.

Steven's smile gets bigger, turns into a full of beam. "I'm not infallible, sir."

Brendan sputters out a laugh in surprise, he'd thought Steven had completely forgotten, and he asks, "did I impart knowledge?"

"If that means did I go off and do as I was told, yeah."

"Yeah, sort of, impart means - "

"Wait, don't. I'll go and use it in a sentence," Steven interrupts and Brendan laughs again, feels giddy and weird.

"That what you came to tell me?"

"No, I did actually leave summat," he says and points to the stool at the other side of the bench, to his jumper.

"Forget your head if it wasn't screwed on, you." Brendan reaches over and grabs the blue material, smell of Steven warm all over it. He holds it out and Steven steps forward slowly to take it but for some reason, some unknown, insane as all _fuck _reason, Brendan doesn't drop it. Steven tugs and Brendan keeps hold and it's like some kind of stalemate, Steven's eyes flicking up to Brendan's face, expectant at first, sly afterwards. "Repeat the word back."

"I think I've already forgotten it, sir."

Brendan tuts. "Like I said, lucky your head's screwed on. Think we should work on that."

"What did you 'ave in mind?" Steven asks softly and Brendan's letting things get out of control, he can't help it.

"Go fetch me my pen," Brendan demands, low and firm and Steven's eyelids drop, eyes turning dark, throat dipping in a thick swallow. He steps back and turns, moves slowly to Brendan's desk and holds his hand above the red biro until Brendan says, "yeah, that's the one," and it comes out so fucking rough and scratchy, sight of Steven waiting to be told what to do just a real head clouder.

Steven brings it back and holds it straight up in the air vertically, between two fingers. Brendan reaches for it but he swipes it out of the way at the last second and Brendan's hand closes in on air. Their eyes fix and lock, air charging between them, stalemate again, jumper for pen? Or does the boy want something else? He'd bet his fucking life on the latter.

"It's nice learnin' all these new words and everything," Steven says softly, "but there's a few other stuff I think you could teach me."

"Oh yeah? And what's that, hmm?"

"Y'know, chemistry stuff."

"Well, I am your chemistry teacher. I'm sure we could schedule something."

"After school's probably best, it's not like I'd rather be at home."

It resonates hard inside him, way deeper than the longing, some huge reminder of Steven's vulnerability, of what he's trying to do here. Steven makes his head fuzzy, makes everything else pale in comparison. It's a powerful feeling and it just soaks in and takes over like nothing he's ever known before, like he's saturated with it, no room for sense. He fiddles with Steven's jumper, holds the shoulders and shakes it out straight.

"Maybe it's not the best idea, Steven."

It doesn't deter, in fact he bloody _smirks. _"What d'you think I'm gonna do to you?" Brendan doesn't answer, just narrows his eyes in surprise. "I'm not tryin' to 'ave my wicked way with you, sir. Just takin' my studies seriously, that's all." He hands Brendan the pen and takes his jumper out of his loose grasp, throws it over his shoulder haphazardly. Then he rolls his sleeve up, slow slip of his fingers against the cuffs that Brendan can't take his eyes off, and moves right up against Brendan's side to offer his forearm. Brendan jerks a his heat, at the solid weight of his body and his other arm sliding up across the bench at his back. Steven looks up at him through his lashes, smallest sliver of space between them, and says, "the angle was bad last time, I had to dislocate my elbow just to read it."

Brendan takes two breaths, actually counts them, and slips his fingers around Steven's wrist, thrills at the way they go all the way around, delicate bones under his fingertips, hammering pulse and rushing blood. He angles the pen and presses just below blue of Steven's veins and watches the word appear across the soft and unmarred canvas. His mouth waters to touch his tongue to Steven's skin, imagines how fucking good he'd taste, and Steven breathes against the side of his jaw, hitching and quick. He daren't look but he can't not, can practically see Steven's wide eyes in his peripheral vision and they're like beacons the way they draw him in.

He wets his bottom lip, totally unconscious gesture because he's fairly certain his body is gearing up to kiss Steven, and Steven's eyes drop to the movement, follow Brendan's tongue like he's greedy for it. There's a ruffling, clattering noise somewhere in front of him but he's too hazy to really process it until Steven's suddenly no longer looking at him. He's frowning, gaze on the door, and Brendan stands bolt upright, pen clicking against the tiled floor where he drops it.

There's nobody there but it's one hell of a mood killer.

He should be fucking grateful.

He isn't.

"Right, well - time you got off," Brendan says breathlessly and Steven's eyes go wide and he mentally scolds himself. "Time you got off _home._"

He's telling Steven to go home but not to rest and relax and study, not to prepare for school the next day like the others, to prepare and wait and wait and _wait, _that constant, oppressive and suffocating mire of anticipation, adrenaline sharpened senses and strained hearing, awareness so finely tuned he'll sense every creaking floorboard, any approaching presence, every raised voice.

He's sending Steven off to _wish_ for a beating because at least when it came, just for a little while, it would end the _waiting._

Brendan watches him hoist his bag up onto his shoulder and smile tightly and he can't -

"Hey, you gonna be okay?"

"I'm always okay," Steven says quickly, steady and familiar like he's said the word _okay _a million times before.

"You can't go to Amy's or Doug's or something?"

"Why would I wanna do that?"

There's no winning here and Brendan bites his lip and makes an absolutely terrible fucking decision. "Tomorrow you stay after school. You wanna learn some chemistry, we'll learn some chemistry."

Steven's face softens and there's relief there in the slow sweep of eyelashes against his cheeks.

It's a bad idea, potentially one of his worst and he's had some _bad _fucking ideas. Except that he's a grown man and he can control his dick. Except that he's Steven's _teacher _and protecting him is his job.

Except that the slow and sweet sweep of Steven's eyelashes against his cheeks makes his heart clench and his stomach flutter like a net of caught butterflies.

Except that he's _fucked, _basically. Completely and utterly, irredeemably fucked.

* * *

He drags Anne out for lunch, needs to get away from the suffocating, moth-eaten smell of the school, from the constant presence of his guilt lurking around every corner and in every supply cupboard. He sees the word _impart _everywhere like God's gotten hold of a biro of his own and doodled it all over Brendan's life for shits and giggles.

Brendan takes her to the coffee shop on the corner and she's grumpy as hell at having to walk all of five hundred yards so he pays for her hot chocolate and slice of vanilla sponge.

"So, what's goin' on?" she asks him after waffling on for about ten minutes about Riley fucking Costello, trainee PE teacher by day but by night time he's sex Superman by all accounts. He doesn't know why she's so grumpy if that's the case; whatever he's doing to her he clearly isn't doing good enough.

"What?"

"You look about ten miles away, what's the matter with you? You usually love making snidey comments about my sex life. Don't tell me you've gotten yourself a fella at last?"

Christ, whatever his face does in that moment she sees because she's making a noise like a dying seal. "Anne, really - stop - "

"Ooh, you bloody secretive shit. Who is he, then? Anyone I know?"

Yes. "No."

"Where did you meet?"

"He's not my - _fella._ He's just a bloke who I know and have no interest in but - " He trails off, doesn't know what. But - what?

"But what?" He shakes his head, rakes a hand through his hair. "If this is you _not _having an interest in this bloke then I'd be interested to see you in love."

"In love? Fucking hell, Anne," he blurts out, swears loud enough that he gets a few dirty looks form nearby old biddies and gives them one of his own in return with a middle finger to go with it.

She grabs his hand and slams it back onto the table and apologises on his behalf while he glares daggers at every single fucker in the room. Then she rounds on him and whispers, "you tryin' to get us arrested for public indecency?"

"Maybe."

Anne shakes her head despairingly and keeps a tight hold of his hand, stands and drags him up out of his chair. "Come on, fresh air for you, you bad tempered prat," she scolds, pushes him out of the door, under and through the little ringing bell he wants to rive off the damn wall with his hands. "Brendan - "

"Yeah," he interrupts before she can get started. "I know, I'm an arse, thank you."

She looks at him sideways as they walk along the street, autumn turning weather, clear and bright but it's jacket weather now, the Indian summer drifted off into cooler air and carpets of auburn-tinged leaves.

"You're - well, you are a bit of an arse. You can talk to me about it, though."

"It's complicated. He's off limits," Brendan tells her after a pause and comes up with something quick and on the spot. "Good friend's ex."

"Ahh, that old story."

"Messy as hell and there's really no point in talkin' about it so - "

"Yeah, okay, I get it. Keep my nose out." She taps her nose for emphasis, links an arm through his and leans into his weight. "Just - "

"Anne - "

"_Just! _Just bear in mind that if he's affecting you _this _badly, there really might be something in this worth paying a bit more attention to. That's _all _I'm gonna say on the subject."

"Why do I seriously doubt that?"

She laughs, gives him that grin she does, bright and beautiful and annoying as fuck. "Because it's probably not true."

* * *

It's almost four and he's had Steven sat at the bench cleaning off equipment whilst Brendan drills him on his periodic table; he struggles with some of the letters, there's so fucking many of them and Brendan knows it's especially difficult for him, so he figures it's time to learn by repetition. He knows that Steven likes to touch things, likes to always have something in his hands, so the equipment works as something utterly menial he can mindlessly fiddle with while he takes in the information.

Also, Brendan's flasks _really _needed a good cleaning.

"CO - "

"Cobalt."

"And it's a - "

"A transition metal."

"Nice, well done."

"Gold star?"

"Sure, you're only eighteen after all."

"Never too old for a gold star, sir." Steven grins up at Brendan where he's walking about, moving around chemical bottles on the shelves and flicking through the books he's got lying round on the counters lining the back wall.

Steven's tie's unfastened, draped around his neck like a scarf. His top buttons are undone, it's perpetually warm in this lab where they're buried seven feet underground. His hair is standing up all over, frustration at Brendan's unrelenting impatience with him, snapping fingers and _come on, you know this _until Steven was gripping his hands through it and pulling into fluffy tufts.

"You've put me through hell already and I've only been here for fourty five minutes, it's the least you can do for me." Brendan watches him scour burnt chemicals off one of the tripods, fingers moving quickly over the metal, careful and capable, for a few seconds before he jerks out of it, heads to his desk just to have something to do with himself. He pulls out a strip of shiny, white paper he'd found under a stack of worksheets on his second day, big, bright yellow smiley face stickers down the length of it. When he holds it up, Steven laughs, open and bright and fucking beautiful like it's the funniest thing he's ever seen. "Amazing, I want one."

"You _want _one?" Brendan drawls, leans his palms against his desk and raises an eyebrow. "I don't know that you've rightfully _earned _one, young Steven."

Steven blinks slowly, half-smile soft on his lips. "Oh? And what does a boy 'ave to do to earn a sticker around 'ere, then?"

"Well, since I am _all _about you helping yourself: why don't you tell me what you think warrants a sticker?"

"Well - " he starts and then stops, looks down and bites his lip. Brendan watches, fascinated and tensing up all over, as he stands up and makes his way over, eyes flicking over him and fluttering open and shut like his nerves are racing, until he's right there, standing opposite Brendan with two feet of wooden desk between them. Steven mirrors his position, hands flat on the desktop, and his head is bowed but he looks up at Brendan, eyes as blue as the fucking sky and twice as bright, twice as endless. "Maybe you could give me a test, Mr Brady."

Brendan swallows the lump in his throat and scratches past it, "a test on what?"

"Maybe summat we haven't done, yet? There's lots of things I wanna learn."

"Oh, yeah? Name your craving, Steven," he says, thick and low and soft, and he sways forwards, leans further across the table like he's drunk, thickening atmosphere and heavy, heady scent of something lush and vibrant in the air.

"Anything I want?"

"How 'bout you tell me and maybe we can work something out."

And if that's not the stupidest fucking thing he's ever said but it suddenly doesn't seem so stupid, not when Steven takes a breath, looks him in the eye and says clearly, "I want you to teach me how to suck dick, sir."

He's nought to sixty in a matter of seconds, heart pounding fiercely and head as clear as a tapped crystal wine glass. Goosebumps break out across his whole body. He's half-hard. He can't breathe. All the while, Steven watches him, watches every reaction take place like Brendan's one of his practical experiments and he crawls under that scrutiny, wants it off him because what he sees in Steven's eyes is way too heavy, way too adoring.

"Steven - you don't have to - this isn't why I'm - " he tries but then he can't speak past his jack-hammering heart lodged up in his throat because Steven's pulling up onto the desk on his hands and knees and crawling across it until he's so fucking close Brendan can breathe his _breath. _

"I can't stop thinkin' about the other week," Steven says into the startled silence, rough and ragged, raw edges of desperation like torn paper. "Never come so hard in my entire life, and _you, _you're just so - fuckin' - please, sir. _Please._"

"Oh, God."

"I want it - so badly - you're all I can think about - "

Brendan's never heard someone beg so pretty in his entire life and all he wants, _all _he wants, is to hear more of it, to hear it times a thousand, to make Steven plead and sob and _feel_ everything Brendan's capable of doing to his body.

"You ain't seen nothin' yet, boy," he purrs against Steven's mouth and cups his neck, drags him forward and pushes his way between Steven's eager lips and fucking moans at the way Steven lets him in like it's all he's ever wanted, like he can't get enough. He pulls back, kisses Steven softly, his top lip then his bottom, murmurs, "you learn by example. Sit." Steven does as he's told, swings his legs over the desk and Brendan strokes his thighs and parts them slowly, spreads his palms and runs them up until his fingertips touch the waistband of Steven's trousers. "It's all about anticipation, Steven," he says softly, rubs a thumb against the hardening bulge between Steven's legs and can't take his eyes off. "It's all about making him want it, about driving - " He pops Steven's button. "Him - " He drags down Steven's zip. "Crazy."

"And is that what I do? Drive you crazy, sir?" Brendan raises his eyes, takes in Steven's expression, nothing cocky right now, just open, asking a question he wants to know the answer to, walls down and he's asking for Brendan to come in and make up a permanent fucking place there.

The only excuse he has is that his brain is blood-drained because the alternative is too frightening to consider when he admits, "God, you have no idea."

He crowds up close, wraps his arms around Steven's back and drags him to the edge of the table and kisses him again, licks into Steven's mouth, sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and presses their bodies as close as he can so Steven can _feel _what he does to him. He grinds his hips forward and Steven pushes back and the friction sends sparks up his spine, spreading heat through his nerves and rapid firing synapses.

"What next?" Steven asks breathlessly and Brendan kisses his jaw and throat, the bared skin at his open collar that he's been staring at for the better part of an hour and _fuck _he tastes good, salt and sweet skin that he laps at and rubs against his still-covered dick until Steven's pulling at his hair and making high, choked-off little sounds.

"Next you tell me," Brendan mumbles against his collarbone, looks up. "Anyone ever put their lips around your dick before?"

Steven's head falls forward, forehead against Brendan's hairline. "Few girls, wasn't ever owt to write home about," he tells Brendan breathlessly and Brendan tips his head up, rubs their noses together, makes him smile and go on, "I always thought I could do better, to be honest."

"Lips like that, I don't doubt it. You're lucky, Steven; I've more than earned my smiley face sticker."

Steven gulps, parts those lips and puffs out air against Brendan's face, full-body shiver from top to bottom against Brendan's hands on him. _Christ, _he's so fucking lovely that Brendan wants to _ruin _him. It's so wrong, so twisted and murky but he wants it like he's never wanted a damn thing in his life, even years ago when he'd fumbled for a boy in the dark for the very first time he never felt anything close to how he does now and it's been so long since he's felt anything other than hollowed-out and empty but with Steven he can't even touch those dull emotions, can hardly even remember their blanketing fog. He thinks about Anne's words, got to mean _something. _

He's selfish and nothing could stop him from taking what he wants right now but it's hard to feel like that when Steven's whole body is arching close to him, when he's begging with his voice and his eyes, when he's so damn sure about the things he wants Brendan to do to him.

Right now he wants Brendan to suck him off and, considering it's practically one of his favourite hobbies, he's damn well going to give Steven his best.

He pulls up the chair from behind him and perches on it, drags Steven closer until he can plant his feet against the seat at either side of Brendan's hips, until his spread legs bracket Brendan's body.

"Now, Steven, pay close attention," he drawls, rubs both hands up the inside of Steven's thighs and watches his eyelashes flutter, his eyes focused. "There will, as you say, be a test at the end."

"Course, sir. I'm always payin' attention to you."

God, he wishes Steven wouldn't say things like that. Except that he's hot and tingling all over, washed with weird, preening pride. He distracts himself by parting Steven's fly, touching the hard length of him through his boxers, just stroking lightly with his fingertips and measuring Steven's reaction. The boy's so open, so unashamed. He looks at Brendan like he wants Brendan to _see _everything.

He _wants _to see everything and even though it's insane, even though any old random staff member could duck down and look through the slips of the windows and right into the room, he fiddles Steven's shirt buttons and exposes the long line of his chest and stomach, touches his palms against the skin and feels shivers underneath his fingertips. Steven's got a tattoo above his hip and that's it, Brendan's on him before he's even decided he's going to move. He parts his mouth against Steven's collarbone, sucks soft, wet kisses down and flattens his tongue over a nipple, scrapes his teeth gently and hears Steven moan, moves down, kisses his stomach, tremble of muscles under his lips, and bites over the tight, inked skin, presses his tongue against it and tastes.

His fingers curl over the elastic waistbands of Steven's boxers and he pulls, exposes Steven's hard and flushed-red cock to the air of the lab. He's beautiful, fucking perfect length and weight and thickness and when Brendan touches him it's like Steven was made to fit in the palm of his hand. His mouth waters and he looks up at Steven, gives him a slow smile that makes his eyes go wide, and dips low and doesn't break eye contact when he touches the tip of his tongue to the tip of Steven's dick.

"_Jesus._"

Brendan shakes his head slowly, tongue dragging across the sensitive head as he moves before slipping his lips all the way down and tonguing under the ridge. Steven jerks up like he can't help it, forces more inches of himself into Brendan's mouth and Brendan rolls with it, pushes into it, more and more until Steven's all the way, deep in his throat with Brendan's lips plush against the hair at the base, dark and course and good enough to rub his nose against, movement against Steven's cock making him choke out a moan.

He swallows, lets the back of his throat flutter, sucks his way back up and down, makes his tongue soft and wet and prides himself on not using his hands, touching Steven instead, palm on the quivering muscles of his belly and fingertips light and teasing against a nipple. Steven starts to shake all over, his legs closing in against Brendan's shoulders, and he slides one hand in to Brendan's hair gently like he doesn't know if he's allowed.

Brendan releases him with a slurp and takes Steven's other hand, threads it into his hair so they're both on the back of his head. "I can take it, you ain't gonna break me."

Steven breathes heavy, voice punching out of him with every breath, soft and breathy moans, and Brendan takes him back between his lips and lets Steven push him back down all the way and hold him there. Brendan rolls his tongue, moves his head, and Steven's whimpering above him, shaking under his hands, tension knotting his muscles tightly and he chokes out, "I'm gonna come," and Brendan hums low in the back of his throat and that's all it takes before Steven's rocking his hips against Brendan's mouth and spilling come over his tongue with a high, heated moan that has Brendan's dick aching and his head spinning.

He drinks down every drop, licks Steven clean while he trembles through the aftershocks, fingers twitching and curling and uncurling in Brendan's hair, nails scratching against his scalp and making him shiver.

"Good?" he mumbles into the skin of Steven's belly, looks up at him through his eyelashes.

"Amazin' - God - " Steven sighs, chest still a rapid and heaving rise and fall. "You're just - "

Brendan chuffs a laugh against him. "I'm what?"

"Just - not like a girl."

"Well noticed, nothing gets past you. What was it that gave it away?"

Steven smirks, leans forward so Brendan has to lean back in his chair. He keeps their eyes locked and slides a hand down Brendan's front, cups his dick through his trousers and squeezes. "Might 'ave been this."

Brendan groans, slides his fingers around Steven's neck and pulls him for a kiss, lets him taste himself on Brendan's tongue. He touches his thumb to the corner or Steven's mouth as he kisses him wide open, slips it across his plush bottom lip and pulls back enough to press the tip inside. Steven touches his tongue to it immediately, fucking eager as anything, and Brendan slides all the way in, dragging heat and soft and wet against the rough skin. Steven closes his lips and sucks and Brendan watches him, mesmerised, fucking natural born cock-sucker if there every was one and it makes him giddy, shaky and desperate.

"Ready to get your knees dusty, Steven? I'm eager to see what you've learned," he asks roughly and Steven nods and sucks a slow slide off his thumb.

"Too right I am, sir."

He slips to the floor, collapses to his knees between Brendan's spread legs, palms on his thighs and eyes up, waiting, watching, _wanting, _hot desperation behind his eyes. Brendan fingers his button and zip and pulls himself out, tenses under his own hand for how good it feels, so achingly hard and damp smear of precome and he gestures _come here _with his fingers and Steven leans close, lets him drag the sticky white all across his lips, paint his sarcastic and sinful mouth with Brendan's come until he's slick and shiny and fucking gorgeous.

"Want it?"

Steven's eyes flutter and he pulls in a ragged breath, breathes, "G-God yes, please, sir, please," and he's on his fucking _knees _and he's begging for Brendan's dick and he doesn't think he's going to last this boy, can feel like there's destiny at work here, written in the stars that Steven will destroy every inch of him and Brendan will be laughing all the way.

"Open up, Steven," he demands, low and rough, and Steven does, just like that, while Brendan cups the nape of his neck and feeds him his cock.

He's incredible, soft and pliant, touch of his tongue tentative as he gets used to the intrusion, gets used to how Brendan fills him up and how to work his mouth around him. He's a fast learner when it comes to the practical, though, and he's a fucking trier to boot, takes Brendan in to the back of his throat and gags around him, lewd, wet sound of it shooting up his spine, but he doesn't give up, pushes on until his lips are pressed to Brendan's hand around the base, until his eyes slam shut and Brendan can't breathe, wants to thank Heaven and Hell and everything in between for the boy's stubborn nature.

He breathes, "oh, fuck, that's good, good boy," and Steven whimpers around him, pretty, helpless little sound that he thinks he might get addicted to. "Look at you, hottest thing I've ever seen, I swear."

Steven's spurred on by the praise, slurps his way up and down Brendan's dick, tongue and lips and dragging heat, hand replacing Brendan's and stroking what he can't reach with his mouth. He carries on making those noises, humming, satisfied and beautiful sounds like Brendan's the tastiest thing he's ever had in his mouth. Brendan slides his hands under the collar of his open shirt and touches his shoulders and across the top of his back, warm and soft skin he wants to devour every inch of, fucking will, not today but one day; one day he's going to get this boy completely naked and open him up, fuck him until he can't even so much as sit down in Brendan's class without feeling his dick inside him.

"God, Steven, don't stop, I'm close," he says on a sigh and Steven doesn't, just slips his free hand under Brendan's shirt and spreads it against his stomach, rakes his nails through his hair until he shivers and jerks up.

He's tense to the point of pain, feels the flood of heat and pressure through his body like he's gearing up to combust, legs shaking and fingernails scratching against Steven's skin compulsively. His entire world narrows and becomes nothing more than wet suction and long fingers and black, smudged shadows of pretty lashes against smooth skin and he's so close but he just needs one more thing.

"Look at me."

Steven looks, shock of startling blue suddenly on him, bright and adoring and sly and clever and Brendan cries out, feels his whole word explode and comes so hard he chokes on his own voice and can't make another sound, just the ragged gasp of his breaths punching out of him until Steven's sucked him dry and he goes completely boneless in his chair in an untidy sprawl.

He can't take his eyes off the pleased little smile stretched across Steven's slick and swollen lips and without a word he reaches over to the desk, picks up the shiny white strip of paper, peels a smiley face sticker off and plasters it onto the collar of Steven's half hanging off shirt.

Steven laughs, open and delighted, and then, completely unprompted, climbs into Brendan's lap, legs straddling his lap, and wraps his arms around Brendan's shoulders like he's settling in.

"You're pretty cocky, you know that?"

Steven shrugs, "I'll move if you want."

"No - " he says, a little too desperately for his liking, his hands coming up around Steven's back to hold him, some strange urge for clinging closeness and the warmth of Steven's body, and Steven's gaze turns sharp on him like a boring fucking drill right into his brain. "I mean - "

He can't really find anything in him to finish that sentence and he's suddenly helpless, dopey with sex and softened by a dangerously growing and completely undeniable affection and that word doesn't even feel strong enough to describe the intensity of what he feels right now.

"It's okay - "

Brendan blows over whatever he's about to say. "It's not okay, not even a little bit. This is - I shouldn't be doing this. I could lose my job, I could end up in front of a judge. I'm supposed to be looking after you, _protecting _you."

"You are," Steven says softly, rests their foreheads together and _fuck _Brendan almost believes him. "I don't want you to get in trouble for me, though."

"I can't help myself around you," he admits, probably the most honest he's been with a person in a long time and it doesn't get his skin crawling like usual, he doesn't hate himself immediately after the words have passed his lips.

"Then we'll be careful. You leave in six weeks, anyway. It won't be that hard."

In six weeks he's not Steven's teacher anymore and if anything that makes him _more _afraid. There'll be no excuses then, no _it's wrong _and _we shouldn't _and _you're my student. _He's already terrifyingly close to falling for this boy, to letting him crawl deeper than anyone's ever gotten before.

Steven speaks like he's offering Brendan something huge and interminable and Brendan clearly doesn't know how to refuse him much of anything.

* * *

He leans, slumped across his desk, head heavy in one hand and pen twiddling idly between the fingers of the other.

Last night Anne had phoned him up in hyperventilating tears and explained to him every single reason why Riley Costello was a back-stabbing, two-faced prick. She'd used words like _dick _and _cut off _and Brendan had told her to just come round because if he has to listen to her talk about severing penises he'd rather be drunk _thank you very much_.

They'd polished off three bottles of wine and half a bottle of whiskey each and here in his lab, first thing on a Monday fucking morning, is where he's paying for his stupidity.

Steven's like a cool breeze over his agonised, mangled nerves when he walks in but it doesn't take long for Brendan to lose focus on him, not the mention his entire class, thinks they might be doing _something _to do with standardising hydrochloric acid maybe, can't really remember what he told them to get on with, and he knows he's in a bad way when even Steven can't hold his attention like normal.

He idly wonders what constitutes for an actual medical diagnosis of alcoholism these days.

The first two hours roll by without much incident but half an hour into the third there's a tension he can faintly feel crawling over him like something cold and slimy and he tries to get his wits about him enough to figure out what's going on.

It's Will Savage and he's mouthing off about something or other and Brendan spots Texas at the back of the room, back pressed against the counter and tears in her eyes, Ashleigh Kane right up in her face, speaking in a low and furious whisper.

"Hey, break it up you two, come on," he calls out but it doesn't penetrate, doesn't even get a reaction.

He can't be arsed with this shit, feels just about ready to get up and smack their heads together and he looks down for literally ten seconds to rub his temples with his fingers when suddenly the whole room erupts. He snaps his head up, watches in frozen, focused horror as Steven grips his hands into Will's collar roughly, throws him down over the back counter and slams his head against the wood hard enough that a crack rings out through the entire room.

There's Amy screaming _stop _and Dodger egging him on and Texas crying and clinging to Leanne and Brendan jumps to life, jogs over and grabs Steven around the waist to haul him back.

"Steven, stop it! Now!" he demands, loud and firm and right in Steven's ear but he still rails, tries to tear himself out of Brendan's arms and he's losing his grip, fucking terrified that if he lets go Steven's going to kill a kid. He tightens his hold, uses his weight to spin them around and fling Steven forward. "Calm down, I mean it!"

"I'm gonna tear him apart," Steven promises in a rough growl and he throws himself forward again, Brendan's hands on his chest bringing him to a halt.

"No you're not, Steven."

Steven suddenly looks at him, actually _sees _him like some kind of fog has cleared, and Brendan's struck almost paralysed, sick to his stomach that he'd been too distracted to notice before,_ two and a half fucking hours. _

He has a black eye. It's at least a day old.

He wants to ask, _Terry? _and _Jesus, are you okay? _but he can't, not right now. Every nerve in his body strains out to Steven, wants to wrap him up and pull him close and soothe out every bit of pain but he _can't._

"I don't care what this is about, okay? You don't solve your problems this way and you especially don't solve your problems in my lab."

"He tried to kill me, sir!"

"Keep talking, Will, and I still might."

"He wants lockin' up."

"Shut up, both of you," Brendan demands, turns to look at Will over his shoulder once he's sure Steven's not actually going to make good on his promise. "Will, I want you out of here. Go to the infirmary and get your head looked at."

"Is that it?" Will splutters indignantly. "I might 'ave known you'd take his side what with him being your _favourite_ and all."

Brendan's blood runs instantly cold and he tries to control his features, doesn't let himself react, strains every muscle in an effort not to launch himself at the boy as well. He feels Steven's chest rise and fall under the palm he still has against him, feels the tension.

"I'll deal with Steven. Get out of my lab."

You'd hear a pin drop the way the room goes still and silent for the most agonised, tortured seconds. Then Will sneers, goes to the bench and grabs his stuff, crowd of gathered onlookers parting to let him through, edging out of his way like they don't want to touch him. Brendan hears him whisper, low and under his breath, "yeah, I bet you will," before he darts out of the door and slams it shut after him.

"Everybody. Pack up your stuff, lessons over_,_" Brendan calls out, no room for argument and the crowd starts to shift and clear. He looks at Steven, drops his hand away, skin tingling from the lack of touch. "You - stay behind."

Steven drops his eyes, nods silently, and Brendan's shaking, hands clumsy and trembling as he pretends to shuffle papers until the room clears, just for something to do, just to stop himself from flying apart.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Amy kiss Steven on the cheek before she leaves and the second the door shuts behind her Brendan's on his feet, crowding close to Steven and cupping his jaw, touching the dark smudge under his eye with his thumb, whispering, "what happened?" when he really wants to say _"I'll fucking kill him for hurting you."_

Steven indulges him for a few seconds before he pulls his head away, "I'm okay, it was nothin'," and Brendan wants to shake him and scream.

"Fine. The what the hell was all _that_ about?"

"Will's a prick, gettin' all his mates to start on Texas - it's not on, not after what he did to his own brother."

"I don't even give a shit, Steven. I literally could not care less what Will did to his fucking brother or to Texas or to _whoever,_" Brendan says roughly, anger bleeding through his voice, frustration and impotence and he _didn't _fucking notice Steven's eye, for fucks sake, and he's blurting out words, reeling and hurtling towards some huge, yawning abyss and he can't stop himself when he all but yells, "all I care about is _you_."

Steven looks like he's been slapped, eyes wide and awestruck, mouth parted in shock. Then he crumples, face falling, eyes fluttering shut, whole body curling in on himself and Brendan catches him, pulls him close into his arms and takes his weight, strokes his hands up and down Steven's back as his fingers cling in the front of Brendan's shirt.

He feels Steven's heavy sigh against his throat, feels him relax into Brendan's embrace.

"Will thinks he knows something," Brendan murmurs into Steven's skin.

"He doesn't know shit or he'd 'ave told everyone by now. He's always making stuff up anyway, nobody would believe him."

He'd thought as much but it's a relief to have it confirmed. Still, he's going to have to keep an eye on Will from now on. The boy's petty and vindictive and cruel and it's a dangerous combination. Brendan remembers the noise at the door when he'd been writing on Steven's arm and thanks the stars that he hadn't been doing anything more incriminating.

"I'm gonna have to get Mr Nolan involved with this."

"I know."

"He's gonna call in your mum, Steven."

"Yeah, I know."

"Fucking stupid, what you did - "

"I know, okay?" Steven pulls back, looks him in the eye. "I was just - I couldn't stop myself - just lost control."

"Yeah, I get it, I do," Brendan whispers softly. "Doesn't make it okay. It's not." Steven doesn't reply, just drops his head to Brendan's shoulder. "Give me your phone."

"Why?"

"Just give it." Steven frowns at him but digs his hand through his pocket and hands it over anyway. Brendan takes a deep breath, steels himself for what he's about to do, imagines another weekend of this, Steven taking punches from a man he's terrified of while Brendan worries himself to death, no, he can't do it, and he presses his number into the screen before handing it back. "If you ever need me, I mean _ever, _then you get in touch, okay?"

"Mr Bra - Brendan," Steven sighs, looks at him, completely exhausted, completely and _utterly_ worn out, and Brendan's name slips out of his mouth like the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.

"I mean it. I'll drop everything, okay? Don't doubt me."

Steven looks like he wants so bad to believe him, to maybe believe that there's some safety to he had here, but Brendan gets his hesitation, gets how hard it is to have hope in a situation that's been so bleak for so long it looks like there's no light at the end of that tunnel.

He nods and Brendan threads his fingers through Steven's hair, looks into his face and feels himself edge ever closer to that inevitable fall.


	3. Chapter 3

Notes: Okay, again I have made myself a liar. This is now FOUR parts. I had a lot of guilt for being so rubbish at updating a damn thing and I was given permission (and encouragement) to upload what I had written so far. There will be one more part.

Warnings: Child abuse, allusions to sexual abuse. Some kink... not sure if that requires a warning.

Word Count ~ 7800

* * *

He sits and fidgets his hands in his lap, drums his fingers against his thigh, looks around at the "inspirational posters" on the wall, _we are changing history _and _zero tolerance _and all that crap, empty, hollow and pretty words that the kids are supposed to take as comfort but that's all they are - words.

_Mr Nolan's in a meeting._

Says the woman sat at her desk outside his office, tap, tap, tapping away at her computer, giving him the briefest two second glance and reeling the words out, flat and disinterested, like she's said them a billion times today alone.

So he waits.

It's ten minutes before the door opens, pretty, brunette woman in a suit walking out, all coy smiles and breathy voice when she says, "thank you very much, Mr Nolan, for your time," and when she walks for the door she tosses her head back over her shoulder and sways her hips.

Eoghan spots him, "ah, Brendan, come on in," and he stands and feels light-headed, black fuzzing in at the corners of his vision so he has to lean against the doorframe for a couple of seconds to get his legs under him. Lack of sleep or something, gnawing worry and his new resolve of sobriety keeping him awake at night - doesn't know when he might need to get in the car and drive somewhere, _urgently_. "Okay there, Brendan?"

He thinks Eoghan might be angling to touch him so he holds up a palm. "I'm fine, stood up too fast."

"Fair enough, take a seat." He does, perches opposite Eoghan's piercing and cold blue gaze over the pale pine desk. "I'd make some idle small talk but you made it quite clear you're not interested in that kind of thing."

"Time is precious and all that. Every second counts when there's a student in trouble," Brendan drawls, dry and sarcastic and Eoghan purses his lips like he's sucking on a lemon.

"Of course. I couldn't agree more," is what Eoghan says but Brendan would put money on the opposite. "So - the incident in your lab, Will Savage and Ste Hay. I need to hear what happened because all I've gotten from Will so far is that Ste tried to 'split his head open like a melon' and 'murder him in cold blood' and that isn't going to go down well in the report."

"It was a fight, simple as that. There's some drama going round about Will sleeping with his brother's girlfriend and Steven just happens to be the brother's friend. Typical school boy stuff, nothing more. Steven shoved him over a desk and shouted a bit but Will's head was fine, the nurse said so."

Eoghan nods. "Good. Then that's what the report will say. The Governors around here do not like attempted murder, Brendan."

One of them in particular seems to like Eoghan, though. "Well, who does these days, ey?"

"There'll be a follow up, call the parents in, make nice with everyone involved, say it'll never happen again and then this goes away, okay?"

"You sure you wanna get parents involved?"

"This isn't the first time something like this has happened with them and don't forget, Will Savage is still seventeen. It's protocol and I want all of this doing above board where I can't get my arse handed to me by the higher ups."

Brendan doesn't let a thing show on his face, just nods and shrugs, "okay," like it doesn't matter to him either way.

"I'll need you to be there and explain what went down, next Wednesday evening if that's doable?"

"Yeah, I'm sure that'll be fine." He stands, straightens himself out. "That all?"

"So eager to leave, Brendan," Eoghan says, low and soft, sprawls back in his chair and looks at him appraisingly. "All business aren't you? Don't even want to stay for a coffee? Thought you'd like to talk a little bit more about the Hay boy."

Brendan's heart jumps, tears against his ribcage, and he blinks to clear his head, breathes through his nose, long and deep. He asks, "wh-what?" and stutters, _shit._

"You have such a special interest in him by all accounts."

"By who's _accounts_?" He doesn't really need to ask, Will's been in here running his mouth off about the fight and clearly didn't stop there.

"You don't have to get so defensive, Brendan," Eoghan smirks. "I'm not implying anything. I think it's nice you've got such a strong relationship with your students. I just hope that you and I can have an equally strong one from now on, what d'you think?"

There's clear intent, underlying warning in Eoghan's words. He stands and holds out his hand and Brendan takes it slowly, hopes Eoghan doesn't feel the fine tremble of his body or hear the quiver of his voice when he shakes it and says, "of course."

"A drink, maybe? You and me. My offer from the other night still stands despite your - _abruptness _- on the matter but - maybe you've changed your mind after all?"

"Maybe," Brendan says tightly, fucking cannot believe Eoghan's gall but he doesn't know what happens if he doesn't play nice and he knows just enough about Eoghan to make him very nervous.

"Maybe," Eoghan repeats, chuckles like Brendan's a small boy that he's humouring. "We'll see then. Have a nice day, Brendan."

He leaves the room feeling cold all over. There's melt ice slushing through his veins instead of blood, freezing stiffness working its way up down his limbs until he's heavy with it, too exhausted to get far. He collapses down onto the curb outside the office like a puppet with its strings cut, buries his head in his hands, and goes blank.

* * *

"Point for Darren's group."

He chalks a line on the board underneath Darren's name.

This is his bright idea for unity among his class members, some kind of bizarre mutant love-child of pub quiz/game of chalk-board pictionary. He's tentatively grouped the students apart from their little mates and he's hoping it might gain him some "creative-awesome-teacher" leverage for Wednesday with Eoghan when he'll have to sit down with Terry and Pauline Hay and hope to God she's drunk enough vodka by then to forget his face.

The daggers Steven had glared at him when he'd grouped him with Will Savage and told them to "get on" had been pretty funny, though. Funny until their bickering had turned genuinely nasty and then he'd wanted to kick them _and_ himself for ever thinking this was a good idea.

He chalks up another molecule, asks pretty wearily, kind of fed up with his own genius, reminds himself to lay off in future, "next, who can tell me what alcohol this is?"

Will's hand shoots up in typical style. Also in typical style, Steven smacks it down and whispers, "we're supposed to be a team 'ere," and then it's on. Again.

"I'm sorry, I was under the illusion that I was the only one in this team with any intelligence," Will sneers and Brendan watches Steven's face darken like it's happening in slow motion.

"D'you want another smack?"

"Steven," Brendan snaps, full on rising tide of panic and he needs to diffuse. "Get out, now. Come see me at lunch."

Steven looks at him like Brendan's physically wounded him, eyes wide with shock and Brendan doesn't miss how Will watches, always fucking _watching. _In a matter of seconds he shutters down, becomes blank and cold. He says, "fine, _sir,_" and stands, gathers his things and wordlessly leaves and Brendan fucking knows he could have handled that better but he loses it when Steven's concerned, doesn't know how to react to him and that gripping fear, caught between losing the boy completely and losing his job and even his fucking freedom.

The rest of the morning passes in a crawl and by the end Brendan feels like he's been raked over hot coals, whimpering, clinging vestiges of stubborn adrenaline that won't release him from their grip. At five past twelve there's a knock on the door and he rolls up his sleeves, catches his breath and fast-beating heart and opens it.

Steven's leaned up against the frame, cool as the autumn breeze, and he looks at Brendan with guarded uncertainty; it sets his teeth on edge.

"Look - " he starts but Steven barges past him and over to his desk and Brendan whirls around, temper flaring, fucking cocky as hell this boy and he's already fraying at the edges, torn up nerves and rapidly shredding composure. "I'm not apologising to you."

"I didn't ask you to."

"But that's what you're expecting."

"You heard what Will said," Steven says softly, some of that cold hardness melting against the admission.

"What he said was out of order and I'll have words with him. That doesn't mean you get to threaten him with _more _violence."

Steven rolls his eyes. "He needs to learn when to keep his mouth shut and I wouldn't 'ave to."

"He's doing it on purpose, he _wants _you to react."

He's getting flustered, frustrated. Steven's like a brick wall sometimes and Brendan feels like he's banging his head against it.

"Well if that's what he wants, that's what he'll get," he drawls, fucking serious as well, Brendan knows that all too well.

"Stop antagonising him, for fucks sake." Brendan paces, rakes his hand through his hair. "He's got a vindictive streak a mile wide and you do not want that boy sniffing around looking for more trouble to get you into."

"You think I'm scared of Will Savage?" Steven leans back against Brendan's desk, elbows supporting his weight, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, picture of lazy contentment and Brendan rounds on him, furious.

"You should be," he says firmly. "He might not be able to take you in a fight, y'know, 'cause your _insane, _but he's a nasty piece of work and I know his type. He's trouble and _we, you and me, Steven, _do not need it.

"Look -"

"No, _you _look. You cool it, okay?" Brendan snaps, sharp as a ruler against wood.

Steven smirks, fucking infuriating like a challenge, makes his blood rush and spit like heat. "Or what, exactly?"

Brendan steps up to him, plants his feet at either side of Steven's crossed ankles, says in a low voice, "or I'll have to punish you."

"Gonna give me a spankin', sir?" Steven asks lightly but there's anger there, simmering under the surface, hates when Brendan goes teacher on him like this, one other fucked up thing about their relationship that neither of them can quite get a handle on.

"You're practically begging for one, boy," Brendan tells him darkly and Steven stands up straight, still inches shorter than him but he has no problem getting right up in Brendan's face when he needs to.

He asks furiously, "oh, yeah?" through gritted teeth, eyes bright and Brendan feels fever hot all over, rage and worry and _everything, _so much pressure, all bubbling away between them, heading for boiling point and Brendan grips the back of his neck tightly, presses their lips together and consumes him whole. Steven opens up, gives it back to him just as hard, just as furious, bites at Brendan's bottom lip and practically growls, "that what you want, _sir_? For me to beg for it?"

Brendan pushes him sharply against the desk, palms on his hips, hard length of his cock against the bulge in Steven's tight as fuck trousers. "Try me."

"Come on then, Mr Brady," Steven goads on a ragged breath, taunting curve to his lips. "I've been a naughty boy, teach me a lesson."

He catches the briefest flicker of surprise in Steven's eyes when he grips one hand around Steven's shoulder and spins him, pushes him forward over the desk so he has to slam his hands flat on the top to stop from going face first into the wood. He digs his fingers into Steven's hips, grinds himself forward, leans over his body using enough weight to make Steven's arms tremble, and whispers against the side of his throat, "I intend to."

A full-body shiver wracks through Steven from head to toe and he pushes back, friction against Brendan's cock making him dizzy and hot and itchy and he hardly knows what's happening but it's like he's possessed, completely caught up in how much he suddenly wants Steven weak kneed with pleasure-pain.

He slips a hand between their bodies, spreads his palm across Stevens arse, fucking perky, perfect little thing, makes the most lovely curve at the dip of Steven's spine that Brendan wants to press his tongue against, and he strokes and kneads, shifts his body to the side, one hand still against Steven's hip.

"I'd brace yourself if I was you, this is gonna hurt," he breathes and Steven moans, faint but audible _fuck _and Brendan raises his hand, waits a few tense and silent seconds, then brings it down against Steven's covered arse cheek with a loud _crack_.

He exhales sharply, jerks forward with the force of it, head falling forward between his shoulder blades as he breathes in sharply with a hiss. Brendan stays his hand, strokes over where he just hit gently, waits for the reaction with tension thrumming through every muscle. Steven turns his head and slants his eyes over his shoulder, locks on Brendan, heated and full of something dangerous, something out of control and _wanting. _

Brendan has to touch, has to feel what he's doing to him, slides the hand on Steven's hip around and cups him through his pants and he's so fucking hard that Brendan can't breathe. He curls his fingers around Steven's cock, presses close and scrapes his stubble across the back of Steven's neck.

"Turns out he likes it," he croons, rubs Steven hard and slow through the smooth material. "Naughtier than I thought."

"Maybe you're just not punishin' me hard enough, sir," and _fuck, _Steven's voice is low and rough, barely a scrape through his throat, cadence of it clawing across Brendan's shredded nerve endings.

He squeezes Steven's dick, raises his hand again and brings it back down, harder than before, sound like a leather whip cracking, and Steven cries out this time, makes a fist and slams it into the desktop. Brendan presses his lips against the side of Steven's throat, asks "hard enough for you?" and Steven shakes his head, stubborn as fuck, kinky son a bitch too as it turns out, and Brendan pops his button and drags his zip with one hand and rags on Steven's trousers and boxers until they pool in a heap against the tiled floor.

Steven shivers and Brendan steps back to get a better view, can't stop _looking_ at him, first time he's actually gotten the boy's pants down, gotten a good look at what's on offer and he's better than anything Brendan could have imagined, long, lean legs and the curve of his dick heavy between his thighs, pretty and round and fucking perfect arse.

His cock _aches _like he's on fire, presses keenly against his own clothes, urge to fuck Steven almost overwhelming him and he _will, _just not here, not like this, so he palms at Steven's bare skin instead, hot and tinted soft-pink from the force of Brendan's hand.

He kicks a knee between Steven's legs and spreads them as far as the material around his ankles will allow, spreads Steven's arse cheeks and spits on two of his fingers, gives him a few seconds to figure out what's going on before he slides his slick fingers against his hole and rubs.

Steven jumps, voice ringing out high and surprised, "_Jesus, fuck,_" and Brendan chuckles, wraps an arm low and solid around his stomach as he presses and rubs but doesn't push inside. Steven rolls his hips, grinds back against him, breathes loud and ragged, "oh, God, please, sir," and Brendan wants to, wants to see how well Steven takes his fingers, watch him open up, but he has some clear and obvious fetish about making Steven suffer so beautifully and he removes them, raises his hand and slaps an open palm against Steven's bare arse so hard it stings _him_.

He jerks and grunts in surprise and Brendan tuts against his throat, murmurs, "soon, Steven, but not today." He brings his hand down again, Steven crying out, arms shaking where he's leaning heavy against the desk. "Not 'til you've learned your lesson." Again. Skin slapping, hot and raw under his palm where he soothes with gentle strokes before he cracks him again, Steven's stomach muscles tensing against Brendan's forearm. "Gotta teach you to stop throwin' yourself into trouble." Another slap, harder, sharper, and Steven's whimpering, desperate, broken sounds tearing out of his throat, and Brendan's gotten what he wanted, Steven's knees weak, legs hardly able to support him anymore.

He quickly deals with his button and zip and frees himself from the confines of his trousers, presses close and grinds his cock against the red and hot skin of Steven's arse and slips, slick with precome, between Steven's cheeks, fucking snug and warm. Steven groans as Brendan slides against the sensitive nerve endings around his hole, whole length of his body trembling against his own, and he's so fucking close, shaking with it, barely controlled fervour coursing through his veins, almost delirious with the intensity, hand tingling and rubbing friction against the hard length of him.

He wraps one arm around Steven's middle, gives him something to lean some of his quivering weight onto, and slides his other hand over Steven's hip, over where he knows the tattoo is, the one he's _endlessly_ fascinated with, until he touches Steven's dick, still so fucking hard he can't believe, dripping slick at the tip. He curls his fingers into a tight fist around the solid flesh and strips him, hard and fast, rolls his hips and drags his own cock up and down the tight crease of Steven's arse, half a minute at most before Steven's sobbing out, ragged and cracking and stunningly, searingly hot, and coming over Brendan's quick moving fingers.

Steven jerks in Brendan's embrace, half-collapses forwards until all that's supporting him is Brendan's arm around him and his elbows against the desk. He shakes and sighs and Brendan's right at the edge, force of Steven's orgasm pulling him over and he's falling, slipping his dick through the slick come gathering on Steven's skin and lost in wave after rolling wave of sparking, blossoming sensation.

When he comes down he's plastered over Steven's back, weight pushing him down into the desktop. He can feel the rise and fall of Steven's erratic, catching breath through his own body, can feel his own in a pounding rhythm to match it. He kisses Steven's feverishly hot neck, nuzzles his nose there, puffs air against his skin, goosebumps rising against his lips.

Brendan murmurs, "sorry," and shifts back and he doesn't know what he's apologising for, Will, the fight, the threat of Eoghan, the hot, pink mess of Steven's backside, going to too far, not putting a stop to this when he should have, but Steven turns in the circle of his arms and leans back against the desk, pulling Brendan close as he goes, soft and yielding and so fucking vulnerable against Brendan's body.

"I hope you're not apologisin' for _that,_" Steven whispers hoarsely and Brendan chuckles against his throat, rolls his forehead against Steven's and peers into his bright eyes.

"You're a little pervert."

"Think I must be." Steven smiles against him, presses their lips together in a trembling, breathless kiss.

"Stubborn as well."

"It's been said," he says wryly and Brendan doesn't like it, wants to ask _Terry? Your mum? _But he doesn't.

"It's not a bad thing, y'know? Not always. I happen to like your stubbornness," Brendan murmurs, kisses him again, feels Steven open up under him, so sweet and fucking grateful for so little he could scream. "But there's some stuff you just gotta let go. Not everything is worth fighting about. You have to pick the important stuff, the stuff that's worth it, and concentrate on whether _that _stuff's worth fighting for."

Steven nods against him, Brendan can see how he takes the words in. "I just don't know how to shut up around him."

"By focusing on what's really important." Steven looks him in the eye and it's like Brendan can physically _feel _the weight of Steven's fall, terrifying and heavy, weight of it settling in over his shoulders, doesn't know if he can handle it so he changes the subject quickly. "I got something to tell you and you're not gonna like it," Brendan warns softly. "You might wanna put your pants on."

"Oh, God. Must be bad."

Steven does as he's told, buttons himself up and hops up to carefully perch on the desk with a gasped _aaahh_ that Brendan can't help but scoff a laugh at.

"Mr Nolan's calling your parents in for a meeting on Wednesday evening about your behaviour."

Steven's face drops, cold horror in his wide eyes for a brief instant before he shuts it away quickly, far too good at shifting into neutral, makes Brendan's skin crawl every time. When he speaks his voice is rough and hoarse, "right, well, okay, that's - that's fine - "

"I'll be there," and Steven looks at him sharply. "He wants me to explain what happened."

"Well, what you gonna say?"

"That you and Will had an argument, got in a stupid fight about it, now you're both fine, all sorted."

Steven runs his hands over Brendan's shoulders. "You make it sounds easy. You came to our house, Brendan." He shivers at hearing Steven use his name like that, familiar and warm the way it curls off his tongue so pretty. There's no authority when Steven says his name, it dissolves even in the dust and stifling suffocation of this lab.

"Who did you tell her I was?"

"She didn't ask, by the time I got back home she was pissed."

"She might not remember me, then."

Steven considers it. "Yeah, maybe."

"I'll just tell them the truth if she does." He gets a smirk and a raised eyebrow for that. "Well - not the whole truth. The 'good teacher' part not the part where I got you moaning up against a tree."

He sees the full-body shudder go through Steven and it's exactly what he was hoping for. "Smug you, aren't you?"

"Don't I have reason to be?" he asks but Steven shakes his head and presses his lips together in an effort not to smile. "Come on, however many girls you've had your wicked way with - it could never compare, right?"

"Might be nothin' to do with _just _you, I might _just_ be gay."

"You think you are?" Brendan asks and he's genuinely curious, more so about the casual way Steven says it, _might just be gay, _like it's no big deal.

"I'm pretty sure, yeah." It's hilarious and he breathes a laugh, tries not to let it turn into a full on cackle. Steven isn't the first bloke Brendan's "helped" discover his sexuality; he's just the only one who hasn'tpaid for it in blood and bruises. The idea of there being others after Steven sends him slamming up against a mental brick wall so suddenly he feels slightly hysterical. "Oi, what you chucklin' at? I just came out to you, aren't you supposed to be all supportive and shit?"

He says it with a smirk and Brendan knows Steven enough now to determine what he needs and isn't _that _a fucking scary thought.

"Sorry, okay - " Brendan coughs and straightens his face into something sensible. "How does that make you _feel, _Steven?" Steven murmurs _git,_ pushes Brendan bodily away from him with both his palms, and he staggers back with another laugh. "Pushing a teacher, Steven? Someone hasn't learned their lesson."

He crowds up close, gets his hands against Steven's shoulders and turns and pushes him back to sprawl across the entire length of the desktop, gets one knee on the wood and hauls himself up to kneel, straddled, across Steven's hips. Steven breathes heavy, looks up at him with dark eyes and a half-curve to his lips and Brendan pretends to consider him before grabbing his red biro and twiddling it between his fingers.

"I think it's time we went over the rulebook, don't you?"

* * *

He'd hoped he might get to talk to Steven before this meeting.

He doesn't.

By the time he gets to Eoghan's office, Steven and his family are already inside the room.

The receptionist tells him to go straight in, _they're expecting you, _so he does, knocks gently and opens the door in that way where knocking becomes completely redundant.

"Ah, Brendan. Take a seat." Eoghan's got a hand gestured towards the only empty chair in the room and it's to Steven's right and his paranoia gets the better of him, wonders if Eoghan's put it there on purpose as he makes his way to it and sits. "This is Mr Brady. Brendan, Pauline and Terry Hay. Mr Brady was there when the fight happened."

He tries not to make too much eye contact with Pauline when he shakes her hand but she doesn't pay him very much attention at all, looks like she isn't quite all here anyway. Terry, however, looks like he'd like to punch Brendan in the face, steal his car keys, then run him over for good measure. Or maybe that's just how he looks at everyone.

It's clear as day; the simmering violence under his twitchy, hostile demeaner. He looks like a soft breeze could set him off.

"So we can get started on this waste of my time, now, can we?" he asks roughly and Eoghan smiles tightly.

"Course. You know why you're here, obviously. Steven's displayed aggressive behaviour on a number of occasions and we at the school are committed to working closely with our student's parents to ensure - "

"Fancy cutting through the procedure crap, Mr Nolan?" Terry's cold as fucking ice, eyes sharp like dark, cut glass and Brendan feels the tension in the room ramp up to unbearable. "What do we need to do to get this sorted quickly?"

Eoghan drags in a breath through his nose, eyes narrowed, clearly unimpressed and for once Brendan finds himself on side. "We need to be sure this won't happen again."

"It won't. I'll make sure of it."

Brendan feels Steven shift in the chair next to him and the bubble of his voice rises up through his throat and pours out, unstoppable through his gritted teeth. "Yeah, how's that?"

"We'll be 'avin words back home, won't we, Ste?"

"Just words, yeah?" Brendan asks in a low drawl, crawling words like black tar, and Terry looks at him, _really _looks at him.

"What are you gettin' at, mate?"

"I'm not your mate."

He's out of it, can feel the haze of red-hot anger curl around him, take his limbs and pull and mould until he's getting his feet under him, ready to stand but Steven's soft voice cuts through it suddenly, a small, whispered, "don't," that penetrates deep.

"What exactly _are_ you implying, Brendan?" Eoghan asks through the terse silence.

He chances a glance as Steven, watches him shake his head ever-so-slightly and feels his heart sink, energy leeching out of him. "Nothing," he sighs. "Just that words at home are hardly procedure."

"No, that's true, but - " Eoghan looks between the four of them, speaks slowly and carefully and Brendan knows, then, that he's caught the problem. "So long as there's no problems at home - we _do_ like to put our trust in parent's handling of difficult situations."

"There's no problems in our home, Mr Nolan," Pauline interjects loudly. "The only problem is our son cant keep himself out of trouble."

"And problems like that never come from the home, do they, Eoghan?" Brendan drones, catches Eoghan's eye and smirks, tries to pull them together, some kind of united front, gets a sly smile back in return and wants to pat himself on the back.

That is until Pauline frowns at him, cocks her head and then his pulse kicks up with the recognition in her eyes. "Wait a minute - you?"

"Mum."

"You're the bloke - _you're _his teacher?"

"Mum - "

"I'm sorry, you two know each other?" Eoghan interrupts but Pauline's confused, wide-eyed gaze doesn't leave Brendan.

"Mum, don't - "

"Shut up, Ste. He came round our house a few weeks back lookin' for my boy. I thought - "

He has to stop this before anymore words come out of her mouth so he jumps in, "yeah, I did. Steven was gonna leave the school and I was concerned and I went to have a chat with him."

All the fellowship has dissolved from Eoghan's eyes when Brendan meets them, cold, hard _knowledge _in its place; knowledge and how he's going to use it. Brendan can already see the gears turning.

"Ah, yes. I remember you telling me now, Brendan. We had a conversation about it that day, I think?" Eoghan lies smoothly and Brendan doesn't like this one bit, growing, gnawing dread grinding away in his stomach.

"Umm, yeah - yeah, we did."

"Well, now that's sorted - Mr and Mrs Hay, your assurance this matter will be dealt with at home and Steven, your apology to Will, I think, should be enough to conclude this nasty business. What do you think Mr Hay?"

"Sounds fine to me." Terry's already getting to his feet, putting one hand on the back of Steven's neck and Brendan watches him cringe against it, screw his eyes shut and press his lips together. Eoghan's ready to let them go, ready to let a damaged boy in trouble walk out of this office because - because Brendan's shown more care that he should? "Don't you worry, Mr Nolan. You won't be seein' us again."

His fingers, the fingers Brendan can't take his eyes off, dig into Steven's skin as Terry says his goodbyes and Steven stands and lets himself be guided out of the office without a backward glance, completely submissive, quiet and subdued in a way Steven Hay should _never _be and it's so fucking _wrong _Brendan wants to scream. He only realises he's staring when Pauline catches his gaze but he's too angry, too helpless to put up a wall and whatever he's putting out, whatever he's wearing right there on his sleeve, she sees it.

For the briefest second he thinks he sees something similar reflected back at him.

The door shuts and he's on his feet in seconds, rounding on Eoghan with his palms against the desk. "Is that it? You're lettin' him go?"

"The matter is concluded, Brendan," Eoghan says coolly, shuffling papers like they've just had a business meeting.

"You saw - "

"What I saw - was me saving your arse from a parent's _well founded _concern regarding your intentions towards their son," he interrupts, leans across the desk opposite Brendan in a mirror of his position. "You think I'd have your gratitude."

"My intentions are to keep him safe."

"Oh, is that it?" Eoghan lights up then, amused and sly. "You provide a service, he provides a service. I can't say I don't admire your style, Brendan. He is, after all, a beautiful boy - "

Brendan's horrified, can't stop the rough words tumbling out of his mouth, "I'd think about shuttin' up now, Eoghan, before I make you."

Eoghan isn't cowed or even taken off guard by his outburst, he simply chuckles, dark and slick like sticky, black oil. "And how _will _you make me keep my mouth shut, Brendan?" He doesn't have an answer, just feels hot and gushing with liquid rage and impotence, can't do a damn thing but breathe through his nose, clench his fists and glare like a three year old having a tantrum. "Okay. Now that's sorted, I think we had _plans_, did we not?"

His blood simmers, close to boil, but he steels himself for calm words, doesn't let his temper take hold and it's Steven's face, Steven's smile and eyes and dopey laugh that he sees in this moment of concentrated purpose.

"Eoghan, look, whatever problem you've got with me, whatever's going on here, Steven doesn't deserve to suffer because of it. He needs our help."

Eoghan goes serious, then. Walls up, all business, and he folds his arms on the desk. "Sit down, Brendan." He does as he's told. "And listen up. Steven Hay is a problem child, he always has been. He's fit for nothing more than thieving cars and gettin' jail when he leaves this place, and mark my words, jail is where he's gonna end up. I've put up with him a lot of years and in a few more months he'll be out of my hair for good and he'll be the tax payers problem so ask yourself - why exactly should I be doing a damn thing, _now_?"

Brendan's floored into quiet with shock and only partly because of Eoghan. He thinks back to his first weeks, the first time Steven barged into his classroom like he owned the place, and he remembers what he'd though - _I'll be out of here in a few months, not my problem. _It permeates the very air of this place like a thick mould, _this _room right here the place it grows and curls out from, and it had once been the philosophy Brendan had lived by, a job here basically written in the very stars themselves, fit him like a glove, so it seems ironic that _this _is where he sheds the weight of that half life he'd lived before -

- before Steven.

He stands, calmly, and levels a steady, cool stare at Eoghan. "Afraid I'm not much in the mood for a celebratory drink, Mr Nolan."

The corner of Eoghan's mouth turns up in a nasty smirk and he stands, too, clearly uncomfortable with Brendan towering over him. "Shame. I suppose I'll be spending this evening writing up an official complaint, then."

Brendan's shaking but there's nothing he can do but call Eoghan's bluff, "enjoy yourself," and turn on a heel to leave.

"Brendan." He stops at the door, one hand on the handle, turns his head over his shoulder. "Think about what you're throwing away. For what?"

He breathes, blinks away the weird, hazy film covering his eyes, the dizzy feeling of freefalling off the edge of a cliff.

Then he turns the handle and leaves.

For what indeed.

* * *

His head's hammering.

His heart's thrumming out a rhythm of blood and muscle against his ribcage.

His fingers itch to grab the bottle in the cabinet by the wall but he can't shake the dread, the persistent _wrongwrongwrong _of the atmosphere tonight. He can't get the pressure-white skin under Terry Hay's fingers out of his head or the words _you won't be seein' us again _or Eoghan and his report, half expecting the police to come banging down his door at any second, a text from Anne demanding to know what the fuck is going on.

It's like a steadily swelling full-fucking-orchestra crashing through his flat and the tension through his body ramps until he's begging for the climax.

He sits and stands and paces, throws his fist against the wall twice, drags his aching hands through his hair and digs his fingernails into his palm.

He waits and waits and _waits _but the crescendo never comes.

* * *

Nothing happens.

Not the next morning when he walks into the staff room, greeted by Anne and a cup of steaming coffee like always, a casual, _you look rough, love, everything alright? _

Not his first lessons of the day with lower sixth, trouble from Lacey Kane as usual, whole three hours passing like clockwork.

Not at lunch during the usual Thursday debrief from Jack about his morning year nine class from Hell, man looking worse than Brendan feels, hair like he's been electrocuted and face as grey as the pavement, haunted look in his eyes like a shell-shocked war veteran.

His day goes off like well-oiled clockwork.

That is until his afternoon class.

His students file in, jostling, chattering, laughing, just like always. Except someone's missing. Steven's not here and his heart lurches and sinks, can't concentrate on anything but the aching emptiness of his non-presence, sharply felt like a gaping knife wound to his chest, worry to match, gnawing and constant.

He tries his best, gets through on the bare minimum for what passes as teaching, doesn't look _once _at Will Savage's smug, got-the-gold face and at the end he asks to speak to Amy.

He can see on her face she knows what it's about but she's still rubbing her stomach, just like last time, and it hits him with a soft _whump _that he kind of wants to laugh at - she does that all the time recently.

"D'you know where he is?" he asks, doesn't beat about the bush, they both know.

"No. I wondered if he'd just done a bunk and not told me but - but he never does a bunk of Thursdays," Amy tells him and it thrums, tingles, makes him feel warm and _good. _"I'm worried about him after last night."

He snaps, instantly, "what about last night?"

"I was texting him and he just seemed in a bad way, you know how you can tell? His mum and Terry had a meetin' with Mr Nolan over Will and I know what Terry's like - " she chokes a bit, sighs and rubs a hand over his mouth. "I'm scared to go round."

"Why are _you_ scared, Amy?"

"Terry - he's, y'know? He's grabbed me a few times, chucked me out a few times, as well. He's proper awful but Ste won't come out, or anything. No matter how much me and Doug ask him."

"It's fine, Amy. I'm gonna do what I can, okay?" She nods. "You need to be careful. Less stress, it's not good for you right now."

Amy splutters, "but - what - "

"Have you been to a Doctor, yet?"

"How did you - no, not yet - "

"Have you at least told someone?"

"My sister knows, and - and Ste," she's shifting and nervous and he hates it, doesn't want her to feel like that around him even though a few months ago he wouldn't have given a toss. "You're not gonna tell anyone, are you?"

"Course not, Amy. It's not my place. Look - if you need anything, you can come talk to me, alright? It's kinda what I'm here for," he says with a dry little smile and she breathes a laugh and goes looser and he breathes easier.

Before she leaves she turns, says softly, "thanks, sir. He said you were pretty amazin'," and his heart skips with the thud of the closing door.

* * *

He'd planned on giving it until Saturday morning, see if Steven turned up Friday after all, thinks back to Amy and her texts, he _could _be okay and Brendan hadn't wanted to go around bashing doors in and making trouble for him if that was the case.

Now he finds himself in his car, pedal to the floor, blur of street and traffic lights passing by like a kaleidoscope of streaking colour, nothing but the sound of the buzzing engine and his own pounding heart.

He'd been about ready to collapse to bed, sleep off his two days of sheer hell, exhaustion and nagging worry, digging fingers and black eyes turning into his own face pushed down into his Superman pillows, muffled sobs and silent tears in the cold dark. He'd gotten as far as his own weary reflection in the bathroom mirror when his phone had gone off, just a text, _i need you, _that's all it'd said, shaking hands as he'd called Steven's number back and heard him pick up followed by a muffled thud and the beep of disconnection.

Thank fuck he hadn't touched anything from his top shelf.

He pulls up with a screech, flings open the car door and by the time he's halfway up the path he's forgotten how to give a shit if the thing gets nicked. A foot from the door he can hear chaos, shouting, smashing glasses, Pauline shrieking - he doesn't knock, just shoves his way inside, strides up the hall and into the archway of the living room door.

Terry's got Steven against the wall, pinned by his wrists, growling right into his face. Pauline's on the floor, jammed between the telly cabinet and the wall, knees up against her chest as she screams and cries, _Terry, stop, _but he doesn't, not until Brendan gets there, moving on autopilot and through a thick, red haze, all the barriers down, and he hasn't felt this kind of anger in years, hasn't felt his blood singing out for the brute force of violence and it's like an old, worn and comfortable friend the way it greets and embraces him.

He's got a hand on Terry's shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie, then he's hurling him back, taking him by surprise enough to fling him halfway across the living room in a lurching spin. Steven's eyes are wide, lip slip, bruise blossoming under a cut on his cheek, body shaking now Brendan's close enough to touch him and he puts his palms against Steven's shoulders gently, whispers, "hey, Steven look at me - "

"What the _fuck _are you doin' here?" Terry's voice rings out behind him and Brendan keeps one hand on Steven and turns to the side, blocks the boy's body with his own.

"I was in the area," Brendan growls, low and trembling, throat thick with the abuse he wants to fucking _hurl._

"Get your filthy hands off my son. Fucking knew it, didn't we, Pauline? Knew this pervert was turning him into a little poof, didn't we!?"

"That why you decided to kick the shit out of him?"

"That's got _fuck all _to do with you - " and then Terry's on him, Brendan turning fully into it, squaring up with all his height and weight and Terry's tall but Brendan's got bulk on him and the curling, sizzling burn of energy through his skin, the untempered hatred for this man and all men like him.

"You fucking touch him again and you'll be picking your teeth up off the floor."

Terry swings for him and Brendan ducks, darts left, Terry stumbling, whirling around, lips curled and teeth bared, and comes at him again and there's not enough room in this lounge, both of them crashing back into a tall cabinet, glass shattering at Brendan's back and falling over them like a cascade of glinting hail, crunch of it under his shoes as he struggles out of Terry's manic grip, the man's fucking insane, snarling and vicious as a pitbull, and Brendan hadn't anticipated that.

He feels the crack of a fist over his cheekbone and temple, vision fuzzing black suddenly, wave of nausea rolling up, time slowing, stretching and his vision clears in slow motion, pain making him sharp, clarifying and narrowing his focus and he hits out instantly, fist sinking into Terry's ribcage, sound like a wheezing choke crushed out of him with Brendan's strength. He reels back and Brendan goes again, holds his shoulder and smacks him in the jaw, grinding knuckles and splitting skin.

Terry falls back against the carpet, legs sprawled and elbows under him for support and there's real poison in Terry's eyes, genuine coiled, caged-animal threat in every line of his body. He'd kill Brendan right here with his bare hands and think nothing of it.

He's just unlucky, tonight.

Tonight, Brendan's going to kill him first.


	4. Chapter 4

Notes: I have again made myself a liar - this is not the final part, there is more story to come. I blame my penchant for writing really long sex scenes that eat up my word count ;) I kind of give up guessing how many parts this is going to have at this point. The next chapter might be the last, it might not.

Word Count ~ 8700

* * *

He frames the scene in his head.

Terry Hay, scrabbling up to full height in the centre of the lounge, dark eyes like sharp, broken off pieces of flint. Pauline in the corner, crying, wailing, red eyes and trembling lips.

And Steven.

Steven pressed back against the wall, bruised and bleeding, mouth parted and blankly staring ahead, palms spread into the surface at his back, chest a heaving rise and fall.

Time's a slow and grinding crawl, his head a crowded mess, a cacophony of white noise and red rage. He's a singular purpose, a bullet with a target, an eight year old boy playing God with the bugs and praying every day for a bigger magnifying glass for a bigger monster. He can't do a damn thing about that eight year old little boy now but the cracks Terry's broken wide open in Steven still bleed with a light worth saving.

Terry lunges for him again, swings for his face and misses, barely, draft of it fresh and cool across his skin. He lets Terry come a few more times, wild and flailing, no balance, wearing himself out on rage fumes, not enough to get another hit in. Pauline's screaming now, _stop, stop it, _but Steven's still silent, still staring.

Brendan steps forward into the wide open space of Terry's posture, grips the material of his jumper before he can get his hands up to block, throws him against the wall opposite his son and pushes his body weight against the length of him.

"Get the fuck off me."

"Get off you? I'm gonna kill you," and he pulls back a fist, about the throw it forward with as much weight as he can harness but there's a slender hand curled over his wrist.

"No, Brendan - " He turns at that voice, shaky but firm, and Steven's right there at his side. "Don't, he's not worth it."

It stills him instantly, clears his thoughts like a fresh breeze clearing fog, and Steven's right, Terry's not important. There's only one thing important in this room and this isn't how he shows Steven how much he's worth.

Brendan drops him, backs up, puts one arm out in front of Steven like a shield and says steadily, "we're going."

"You're goin' nowhere with my son," Terry snarls, lunges forward but Brendan gets his palm against his chest and shoves him back, keeps his hand out in case he comes back. "You want me to call the fucking police? Tell 'em all about our Ste's been gettin' up to with his pervert teacher?"

"Steven," He blindly grabs out, doesn't dare take his eyes away from Terry and Steven's fingers curl over his own and he grips, _tight. _"Come on."

"You'll be locked up for this! They'll throw you in prison!"

Brendan pushes Steven back, away, towards the door, then steps forward, squares right up to Terry, so close he can _feel _the heat of Terry's anger bleeding through his clothes, and says in a low growl,"you do that, Terry, go right ahead. I will _gladly _see you there."

It strikes a nerve, hits something that shows through Terry's anger, some kind of sense and he seems to lessen, some of the tension falling back and creating a gap like Terry's shrinking away from him. It gives him the space he needs to hustle Steven out of the house.

Neither Terry nor Pauline tries to stop them again.

Out on the path, cool night air and smell of clear ozone and touching frost, Steven staggers, puts his hands on his knees and chokes some terrible, heaving sob. He's not crying, there's no tears, just the sound of him trying not to fall apart. Brendan rubs a palm across his back, doesn't ask if he's okay, it's obvious he isn't and he won't patronise Steven like that, won't make him feel any more vulnerable than he already feels.

"He said he was gonna call the police," he strains out, high and cracking.

"He won't."

"You could go to prison for this - never should 'ave text you - I'm goin' back inside, I'll just sort it - "

Brendan ducks down, grips Steven's shoulders and pulls him up to look him in the eye. "He won't call the police, Steven. He's just kicked seven bells out of you, nobody's got proof we've done anything wrong, I'm guessin' Terry's got a police record anyway?" Steven nods slowly. "Right, then. He won't call the police. I promise."

Steven bites his lip, breathes deep through his nose and seems to pull himself together, still shaking, still bright behind the eyes, but he's okay and that's all that matters.

Everything else they'll deal with.

* * *

By the time he's gotten Steven up to his flat he's gone quiet.

Brendan directs him to the sofa and he sits staring at the coffee table.

"D'you, umm, want a cuppa tea?" he asks awkwardly and Steven doesn't say anything for a few seconds. Brendan's about to repeat the question when he finally shakes himself, corner of his mouth turning up as he does a sarcastic sort of eye roll and peers up at Brendan wryly. It breaks through the tension and Brendan scoffs, hunches down in front of him. "Yeah, okay, smart-arse. That's what people do, isn't it? Offer tea in times of crisis." He puts his fingers to Steven's chin and angles his face up to the soft glow of the corner lamp, throws dancing shadows over the marks on his skin. "What happened?"

"We got home from the school on Wednesday and nothing, he just told me to get out of his sight. Then I was going out Thursday morning and he just lost it and wouldn't let me leave. We 'ad this massive slangin' match and he said I was never goin' back to school, that I better get myself down the job centre, just - screamin' at each other. Then he said - " Steven pauses, looks away from him. "He said _your boyfriend's not 'ere to protect you, now _and just started laying into me."

"Jesus," he has to swallow to keep the taste of burning bile out of his throat. "You should of got in touch sooner, why didn't you?"

"I thought he'd get over it and he did for a bit; he went out and I thought it were done with. Then he came back rotten drunk and it just started all over again."

He itches to touch so badly his fingers _ache _but he can't, everything feels too precarious now. Steven's too vulnerable and Brendan's responsibility in what's happened to him weighs heavy on his position as well as their relationship - their _whatever_. "I'm guessin' it's not just your face he had a pop at?"

"Tryin' to get my clothes off already, eh?"

"Come on, I got better lines than that. Give me _some _credit, Steven." Steven breathes a laugh, just nods, nothing more. "D'you need anything? Painkillers?"

"No, I'm alright," and Brendan tries to argue but Steven puts a hand on his shoulder and the words catch in his throat with how just that soft touch alone makes his stomach jolt and loop out and down and around like he's on a rollercoaster. "Brendan, I'm fine. I'm not being stubborn," and he knows Brendan too well, clearly, can read his fucking mind apparently. "I won't say no to that cuppa, though."

"Biccie?"

Steven laughs. "No, tah. My stomach's in knots."

"It's okay, Steven. I told you, there's no way Terry's stupid enough to phone the police."

"It's not that, it's - " He cuts off, fiddles with his bottom lip. "I know I shouldn't care, I know she doesn't care about me but - "

"Your mum?" Brendan asks softly and he nods. "Course you can care, she's your _mum_." Steven looks down and Brendan bites the bullet, slides a hand around his jaw, fingers on warm skin, close and intimate. "She does care; sometimes people they - they just get to a point where they can't show it anymore. Doesn't mean they're heartless just that they're too messed up to do anything about it. You can't help her, Steven. Only person who can help her now is her."

"I might text her or summat, tell her I'll talk to her when Terry's calmed down."

"You do what you need to do, Steven. I'm here, whatever."

He stands, slips his fingers from Steven's face but can't resist the trail of his fingertips and Steven catches his hand. Brendan pulls him up from the sofa easily and they're so close it crashes home like a ringing gong that Steven's in his damn _flat_.

"Hiya," Steven says softly and smiles and it's so disarming he's caught completely off-guard by it, kind of wants to wrap his arms tight around Steven and do something weird like ruffle his hair and then stick his tongue down his throat.

Instead he says, "hey," back because he's feeling cute as fuck and he can't help himself.

Steven makes him feel so young and so old at the same time, makes him feel swollen to bursting with a light he didn't know he had in him and it sends him crazy and makes him wonder if maybe crazy's always been the game, it just took Steven to make him see it.

He's laughing softly and Steven's curious. "I used to do really stupid things, used to get myself in all these crazy situations. I thought I'd turned over a new page or something, put all that insane stuff behind me, but - here you are."

"Used to be a trouble maker, did you?"

"You wouldn't have liked me back then." He gestures for Steven to follow him to the kitchen where he fills the kettle, switches it to boil. "I wasn't a nice bloke."

Steven hoists himself up onto Brendan's kitchen worktop like there's nothing at all rude about doing that in someone else's home and it's so fucking endearing, makes him look so in _place _against the backdrop of Brendan's life. "I gathered as much."

It's his turn to be curious. "Yeah?"

"The way you went for Terry tonight was pretty vicious."

"I used to be just like him, used to think I could control a person with my fists." He doesn't know why he's telling Steven this but it doesn't seem to matter, he's still perched there on the counter, still listening intently. "I had a lot of anger and it used to just - " He gestures, hand pushing out from his chest, asks, "y'know?" and Steven nods.

"Yeah, I know. Who was it? Who made you like that?"

The ease with which he says, "my dad," frightens him.

"He gave you those scars?"

"He gave me a few. Most of 'em don't show, though."

Steven smiles wryly and nods again, the unspoken understanding like a cool balm in the face of such a weighty subject. It's the kind of thing he appreciates, no dramatic but ultimately hollow sentiments, no barrage of over-bearing concern. It is what it is and, sadly, Steven knows that.

"You wasn't really gonna kill Terry, was you?

"I don't even know, I just - saw red."

"Thanks."

He turns from the cups and tea and sugar, looks up at Steven on the counter. "You don't have to thank me. I didn't come so you'd thank me, I came 'cause - " and then he _can't _finish that sentence.

But of course Steven wants an answer. "Because what?"

Good question. Because he hates bullies like Terry? Because he knows what fear like that can do to a person? Because he cares about this boy? No, not a boy, definitely not a boy. Brendan's seen enough of him to know he's no boy. He's been through too much for Brendan to patronise him with that label.

He's so lost in his own thoughts he doesn't realise he's got his hands under Steven's hoodie and t-shirt until there's warm, shivering skin against his palms and fingers and it's too hard to let go.

Apparently he said that out loud because Steven's leaning into him, pressing close and murmuring, "I don't want you to let go," against his jaw and it's too much, here in the space between Steven's spread thighs and if he doesn't move away then there's not a damn thing in the Universe save a fucking asteroid that's going to stop him from taking what he's craved for weeks.

"Steven," and he pulls back to look Steven in the eye and _fuck _he should not have done that.

"Don't start," Steven interrupts. "I want it, I want you to f - "

He blurts out, "_Steven!_" through gritted teeth, all frayed around the edges like he's already unravelling. "Don't - don't say it." Why is he doing this, just why? He's a damn saint, he deserves a fucking medal and a song in his honour. "You've had a bad night, your head's a mess - "

"What are you, a psychology teacher? Fuckin' hell," Steven interrupts in exasperation and the next words he punctuates with a low and slow, rough drawl. "I just want you to fuck me, or is that too much to ask?"

There he goes, knowing _just _how to push Brendan's buttons, get him so riled up he can't think straight, and he breathes a low growl, grips his fingers into Steven's lower back and pulls him to the edge of the counter. Steven butts up against him with a soft _ugh_, clamps his legs around Brendan's body and his hands around Brendan's shoulders, and Brendan can feel him go hard against his stomach.

"You sure that's what you want, Steven?" he whispers against Steven's lips, soft and plush under his own, parting over Brendan's bottom lip and sucking lightly. "I don't know if you're ready, is all."

"I'm not a virgin, you know."

"You ever had a cock in your arse?" Steven smirks. "No? Then for the sake of this conversation, you're a virgin."

"Fine," Steven hums, tips his head but they don't kiss, just the warm, hovering touch of his mouth. "Tell me what to expect, then."

A shiver dances and skitters under Brendan's skin and he starts talking, a low, quiet rumble. "First, I gotta get you ready."

"How?"

Brendan drags one flat palm up the sweat-slickening skin of Steven's back then rakes two fingernails lightly down his spine. He arches under it, mouth falling open in a gasp. "With my fingers. Or - " and _fuck _the idea hits him like a sack of cement and he takes Steven's bottom lip into his mouth, wets it with a slow lick. "With my tongue."

He hears the click of Steven's throat as he swallows thickly, feels the blood rush as he goes completely hard between the tight press of their bodies and he's not far behind, himself.

"Are you serious?"

He's fucking dizzy on the tiny space of recycled, too-warm air between them. "Why, you like the sound of that? My tongue on your hole?" Steven arches against him again, makes a sound that shoots straight to Brendan's dick like a heated bullet, a high, extraordinary moan and he wants it again, wants it forever. He tangles a hand through Steven's hair, pulls him back to look at him properly. "Wanna see how good it feels?"

"God, yeah - "

"Slick you up 'til I can get my fingers in?" Steven nods, mouth parted, breathe beating out of him and he takes a hand down between them, spreads a palm over Steven's dick, stiff through the denim of his jeans. "Find that sensitive little spot inside you and see what we can do with it?"

Steven's eyes flutter, throat bobbing, fine flush of colour across his cheeks, perfect picture of something he wants to fucking ruin. He used to enjoy taking men's virginities, twisted as it was, and he hasn't felt so inclined for a long time. Tonight, though, he's going to revel in it.

He gets an arm at Steven's back, a hand under one leg, and hauls him off the counter and Steven's with him straight away, quick to grip him tight, push himself up, roll and grind of his hips and Brendan slams him against the kitchen wall, grins wide and gets one in return, filthy curl of his lips that he wants to taste so he does, slants his mouth over Steven's and licks inside, deep and wet; so damn sweet, Brendan can't wait to taste the rest of him.

He trips on his way into the lounge, half drops Steven who laughs, high and loud, before he nearly goes over. Brendan grips his hips and spins him, ends up sprawled over him on the sofa, one knee digging into the cushions, one thigh snug up between Steven's legs and he's hot and breathless, arching up where Brendan presses down into another slick kiss.

Steven's fingers fumble at his buttons and Brendan unzips his hoodie, wrestles both open blind because he can't take his tongue out of Steven's mouth long enough to look what he's doing and as long as he touches skin soon, he doesn't much care how he gets Steven out of his clothes. He leans back, shucks his shirt off his shoulders, slips fingers under Steven's t-shirt and pulls it up and off, gets his palms on Steven's warm belly and chest and feels the desperate rise and fall of it and it hits him, what they're about to do, when he fucking _sees _the bruises.

Two solid, black circles, one purpling, yellow at the edges. One low on his ribs, the other two close, side by side to the left of his belly button. He reaches to touch like he's moving in slow motion.

"Don't - "

Steven covers himself with his hands, can't look Brendan in the eye, and Brendan's frozen still for half a minute, cold horror leeching through him like slick, toxic sludge in his veins.

_I'm gonna kill you. _

_No, Brendan, don't - _

He's gripping both of Steven's hands before he plans to move, tangling their fingers together and pulling, sliding them up and into the sofa cushions at his sides. He slips to the floor between Steven's spread legs, knees hitting the carpet, and dips his head, chases the warmth of Steven's skin with his mouth, presses his lips and tongue over the dark marks like he's trying to absorb the blows. Steven's gaze is back on him and he peers up and feels words bubbling up through his throat.

"I'm still gonna fuck you."

"Yeah?"

"You bet your sweet arse, I am."

Steven smiles, breathes a laugh, tension dissolved and muscles under his hands gone shaking eager instead of wary and Brendan kisses him lower, nuzzles against his belly, drags his lips down and sucks kisses from one side of his waistband to the other while he works Steven's button and zip.

"Think I like the look of you on your knees."

"Yeah?" Brendan asks in a low hum, vibration of it though his lips and into Steven's body, fingers plucking away the elastic of Steven's boxers as his mouth starts to water.

"With no shirt on."

"Oh, yeah, obviously."

"You know I've not seen you completely naked, yet."

"True," he murmurs, tongues against the material over Steven's dick. "That your way of tellin' me to strip?"

"Mmm-maybe."

"Steven, Steven, Steven." He can see the spark in Steven's eyes, still coiled and hesitant. "Whatever you want me to do - " Brendan sucks, wet and sloppy, against the head of his dick through his boxers, pulls the material away and down and flicks his tongue against salt-bitter, flushed skin. "All you have to do is say." Steven's hips lift, mouth parting, Brendan's hot breath on his already over-heated flesh. "_Anything _you want." He flattens his tongue, shakes his head slowly, lazy drag of soft wet, dips lower until he can lick all the way from base to tip. "It's my pleasure."

He feels Steven's hand pull from his own and slide down to cup his jaw, his thumb pressing in at the corner of his mouth.

Steven's wide open when he says, steady and sure, "strip," and it hits Brendan low, being told what to do like this.

He plants his hands on the sofa cushions, arches and drags his body against Steven's as he pushes himself to stand and Steven comes with him, sits up at the edge of the seat as Brendan fiddles with his belt, looks him dead in the eye and smiles. The metal clatters, leather slips against his fingers, soft and visceral like skin, all his senses tuned and hyper-aware under Steven's attention.

Steven licks his bottom lip, eager as sin, so he hooks his thumbs into his waistband and pulls until his trousers and boxers fall enough for him to step out of them and kick them back. His skin pricks in goosebumps all over, cool air and Steven's intense focus like a physical thing crawling across his body.

He's never had a man completely naked in from of him before and it shows.

He raises his hands and touches, scratches his fingernails against Brendan's thighs and scrapes up through the hair on his legs right up to close around his hips. His throat dips when he swallows, ragged breath that Brendan can feel puffing out of him and then lips against the top of his thigh, right under his hip and his shaking hands are suddenly tangled tight in Steven's hair in how much he didn't fucking expect _that _to happen. It doesn't faze Steven, in fact he hardly seems to notice, soft hum vibrating against his stomach as Steven nuzzles his nose, scrapes his teeth and sucks sloppy kisses up and up, stands with it until he's licking at Brendan's collar bone and throat, pleased little sounds as he trails a path to Brendan's ear.

"Fuckin' hell," he murmurs and Brendan tips his head back at the soft drag of Steven's lips across his jaw.

"You like?"

Steven nods and can't stop touching him, hands and mouth and physically his _whole _body, pressing in close against him. Brendan holds his hips lightly and lets him, fucking revels in it and he's never really let men touch him like this before; he's never much wanted them to. Now, though - now he can't get enough of Steven's eager, greedy handling. He's like that with Steven - desperate for _more _and _everything. _Just as eager, just as greedy.

Steven kisses him, slow and deep, and Brendan can feel how much he's trembling all up his front. He pulls back, tips his forehead against Steven's then ducks down, wraps Steven back up in his arms and lifts him just a few inches off the floor. He laughs and clings tight to Brendan's shoulders and Brendan walks them into the hall to his bedroom door.

"Give the door a kick," he says and Steven does, bends his leg and shoves the door open so hard it bounces back. "I said give it a kick not bust it off it's hinges."

"Don't know me own strength, me," Steven murmurs through a smile and Brendan kisses him, carries him over the doorway and kicks the door back shut, maybe, _possibly_, a bit too hard as well. "Put the light on."

"Yeah?"

"I wanna see everything."

_Jesus._

He flicks the switch then gets the back of Steven's legs to the side of the bed, plants one knee against the mattress and swoops low, spreading Steven back against the sheets and leaning over him.

The thought occurs to him, suddenly and painfully now they're actually here, that he's got one of his _students _splayed out on his bed like a private feast. It should horrify him but it doesn't, nothing with sense can touch him right now, he's too lost and he'd fucking _known _this boy was bad news from the start, look what Steven's _done _to him. His precisely aimed smile, the dark intent in his eyes, his greedy hands, everything; Brendan's been bloody addled. What chance did he have against all of _this?_

"You got magical powers or something?" he finds himself asking, fingers pulling at the waistband of Steven's jeans and Steven looks at him like he's lost it.

"Yeah, I'm Harry Potter."

"Funny."

He yanks hard, gets the jeans and boxers over his arse and Steven arching back on the mattress with a breathless laugh. "I'm hilarious."

"You're infuriating."

"But - " Steven drawls and it's a really question.

Brendan wrestles him out of the denim, tosses it to the side and kneels up astride Steven's knees like some Roman emperor gazing out over his empire. But - but what? But I lo-like you anyway? But I -

_No._

He really is losing it.

"But you're naked so - I can look past it."

Bruises, yes, but inches and inches of honey-warm skin, slender and lean and dick flushed and curving up against his stomach, looks like he should be in an issue of Gay Times or something, the idea of other men's eyes on him, other guys getting to see this - his throat tightens up, makes him feel prickly with aversion.

"Oh, you're so charmin'."

"Charmed the pants off you, didn't I?"

Brendan grins at him, feels suddenly giddy, reckless, like he's already breaking every rule in the book here, why the fuck not do it with abandon. He leans down, pulls Steven into his arms and rolls him over into the middle of the bed to the sound of his surprised, high-pitched squeak. He gets on top of him, leans back on one elbow, doesn't want to break the boy, not like _that _anyway, and settles in between his thighs and _fuck _it feels good, the clinging drag of his cock rubbing up into the V of Steven's hip. He does it again, slides one knee up the mattress for more leverage, up under Steven's leg which closes around his hips, and grinds Steven down, hard.

He throws his head back, gasps a low noise, arches his hips up against Brendan's weight and the tight friction feels hot and heavy. Brendan kisses his throat and jaw, rolls his hips, feels the slow build of pressure start to bloom and spread, makes his fingers itch and his stomach flutter.

Makes his tongue feel thick in his mouth.

Brendan breathes, "turn over," and Steven swallows, pulls in breath through his parted lips. He helps with a hand on his shoulder, gets his legs spread so he can settle in between them, more skin, more bruises, smooth arch of Steven's spine and that dip at the bottom of his back that Brendan's so fucking obsessed with; so much in front of him to play with he feels spoiled for choice.

He runs both palms up, presses the heels of his hands in hard to feel the mold of Steven's muscles, scrapes his nails to make Steven's skin prick up in goosebumps. He rests his weight on his hands against the mattress, plasters his body to Steven's back and nuzzles the side of his throat, presses his tongue flat under Steven's ear and swipes it in slow, lazy circles. From here he can reach the bedside drawer and he does, roots his hand inside it for the lube and condoms.

"Remember what I said I was gonna do to you?"

"Y-yeah - "

"You're thinkin' about it right now, aren't you?" He sucks softly, flicks his tongue. "How it's gonna feel?" Steven nods, makes a sweet little noise, desperate and breathy and he gets his hands on what he's looking for, tosses the stuff quickly down the bed. "It's gonna make you feel like you wanna come. It's gonna make your dick harder than it's ever been. You're gonna be beggin' me to fuck you when I'm done, that is - " he sucks kisses down over Steven's shoulder, across the smooth skin to between his shoulder blades, " - if you can even still make words by then."

"Ohm'God," is the reply he gets so it looks like it's already working, Steven's body the most responsive he's ever had, just shameless the way he _wants _and wants Brendan to seeexactly how much, unabashed and obviously desperate.

Steven's skin tastes so fucking sweet under his mouth, shivers against his lips and tongue as he slips a wet trail down his spine, into that dip where he scrapes his teeth, drags his lips, sucks and licks like he's trying to devour. His hand closes around Steven's hip, thumb fitting perfectly into the soft dimple of Steven's skin above the curve of his arse like that tiny space was carved out for him alone to touch.

He remembers bright pink handprints and how Brendan's slapping palm had gotten Steven hard and he grins and bites against one cheek, gives Steven a light smack that gets him barking a laugh. Brendan savours the moment, grips his hands into giving flesh and parts it, opens up Steven's pink hole to the air of the room and _sees _the shudder go up his body, blows cool air from his pursed lips across him to get him squirming.

For the sake of his own safety, he presses down his hands firmly with his weight, the boy is _really _fucking responsive, then he leans in close and licks a slow stripe from top to bottom. Steven jerks and arches against him, chokes out a curse, and he goes again, licks him, wet and sloppy and doesn't stop, drags his tongue soft then rough, hard focus on all those sensitive nerve endings then sucking kisses, deep until he's right in there, until Steven opens up under his tongue and he can push the tip inside.

Steven's moaning litany turns into a harsh cry, a ragged _fuck, oh my - fuck - _and it spurs him on, deeper, slow and heavy thrust in and out and he lets Steven move with hit, lets him arch back, try to get _more, _it's fucking astonishing, beautiful how wild he is, doesn't know what he wants, just wants Brendan to keep making him feel _good. _

His muscles are straining under Brendan's hands and he's pretty sure he's got Steven right on the edge, rubbing his dick against the sheets under him, Brendan fucking him with his tongue, so he stills Steven with an arm around his hips, and drags him up to his knees, dick heavy and so fucking hard between his spread thighs. He uncaps the lube and spreads it over his fingers, drags through the spit that's gathering slick against his chin and presses against Steven's hole with his fingertip.

"You okay?" he _has _to ask and Steven rolls his head on his folded arms, looks back over his shoulder and nods, eyes dark as slate and bright as diamonds, just as sharp the way that gaze cuts right through his desperately itching skin.

That's all he needs and he pushes the slippery tip inside, already loose from his tongue. Steven tenses but doesn't seize and Brendan strokes his back, slides all the way in smoothly, hot gripping muscles around his finger sending sparks straight to his dick. He moves, in and out, slow rub to make space, croons low words _so good, Steven, s'gonna feel good, I promise _and Steven breathes, gasps and sighs until Brendan adds another finger, pushes both in and twists them with purpose, reaches and curls them down until he finds what he's looking for.

Steven moans, thighs tensing, back arching and Brendan asks, "feel good?" and gets a soft, breathy _yeah _in return so he fucks Steven with his fingers, slow but firm, makes sure to get his prostate on every push. He dips his head, flicks his tongue alongside the digits, licks a wet path down over Steven's balls and sucks on the velvet-soft skin, Steven's voice a growing litany until he's whimpering.

"You want me to fuck you, Steven?"

"God, yes, please, _please, _Brendan," it's almost too much, soft, pleading voice and _fuck _Steven's so hard, burning hot and practically lit up with sparks shocking against Brendan's skin.

He finds the condom, rips it open and rolls it down one handed, pulls his fingers free and considers Steven; he's quite a picture, arse in the air, spine curved, slicked up and open-ready and Brendan wants to see his face but for now he'll make do. He pours out more lube, covers himself from base to tip, lines up and pushes gently. The sight of Steven taking him in, the feel of him opening up and clinging, gripping, so fucking _tight,_ so fucking accommodating, he needs to stop, needs to give himself a minute to regain his composure, needs to give Steven a minute to breathe but it seems he doesn't even want that.

"Don't stop, d-don't," so he doesn't, slides, painfully slow, inch by inch, until he's pressed flush against Steven's body. "_Jesus - _" and Brendan's inclined to agree, shaking already, doesn't know which way's up or down. "Come 'ere, Brendan," Steven whispers and he goes, just like _that, _like Steven's voice alone is enough to bend his will.

He's careful, slides his hands against the sheets up and up, under Steven's folded arms and over his wrists and hands to tangle their fingers together, his chest and stomach moulded against Steven's back. He presses a kiss to the back of Steven's neck, drags his lips across his prickling skin, his jaw, until Steven turns his head and catches his mouth in an uncoordinated kiss, just a mesh of lips and tongue and gasping breath.

"Does it hurt?"

"A bit." Brendan nods, leans his forehead against Steven's temple and rolls his his hips ever so slightly, just an inch in and out, Steven's fingers curling tight on his own, his eyes fluttering shut, smudge of pretty black against his cheeks and the next thing out of his mouth is, "_Brendan," _so reverent Brendan's heart leaps, tries to claw its way out of his chest, through his ribcage and skin and muscle and into Steven's own through his fucking spine. "It's okay, fuck me, I want you to, I want it - "

So he does, pulls out slow and pushes in even slower, gets used to the almost suffocating tightness, the stifling heat, the _too much _of Steven's willing body letting him in, letting him have this. He builds a rhythm, pushes deeper when Steven starts to arch back, fucks him slow and steady, kisses his lips and cheek and throat, sweat slick skin of his body sticking where they touch, everything damp and hot and close, hazy with intimacy, thick with sensation.

He untangles one hand, palms Steven's shoulder and back, strokes his ribs, fingers playing in the ridges under his skin, his side and hip and the swell of his arse, lightly touches where Brendan sinks into him over and over and feels the part of giving muscles. It's addictive, intoxicating, something he's simultaneously desperate to have until he tires of it and terrified that he never will. He slides his hand over Steven's hip, fingertips brushing up against his dick.

"Fuck, you're hard," and he fucking _is, _completely, painfully so and Brendan curls his fingers tight around him, strokes a slow rhythm with his thrusting hips. Steven's got no words for him, just incoherent whimpers, ragged cries like he's dying and Brendan _wants _to see his face, can't tamp down that urge when everything else is simmering so close to the surface. "Over."

He flips Steven onto his back and kneels between his spread legs, looks into his face and the part of his mouth when he looks back. Brendan runs his palms up Steven's thighs and can't help but blurt out, "fucking _state _of you," because he is a state, splayed and hard and flushed peach-pink, hair a blond mess, eyes liquid dark and focused heat - he's _obscene _and Brendan tells him so and watches him flush further under the praise.

He hooks his legs over Brendan's hips and catches him off guard, drags him closer roughly and Brendan falls over him with a laugh.

"Pushy bottom," he murmurs against Steven's mouth.

"You're not done with me yet, _sir,_" and there it is again, fucking shiver zipping up his spine like a live wire.

"No, I ain't, _boy,_" Brendan tells him in a low growl, can't help the way his voice catches around the words. He positions himself again, knees under him, hands against the mattress at Steven's sides, and slides home, one rough jolt that sends Steven sliding up the mattress. "Not even close, gonna make you _scream._"

Steven's fingers grip into his shoulders, his heel pressing into his back, and Brendan fucks him until he arches and tenses right up, moans, "oh, God," and he makes sure to hit him right _there _on every thrust until he's squeezing his eyes shut and offering the sweet arch of his neck to Brendan's watering mouth. He drags his lips and scrapes his teeth, leans his forehead against Steven's collarbone and breathes ragged against his sweat damp skin, completely high off the noises spilling from Steven's throat.

It's close to what he wants, the high cries and clenching muscles, Steven's fingers in his hair, digging and pulling like he's got no control over it, like he's trying to drag Brendan closer even though it's impossible, but not quite, not yet. He can see the steady dribble of pre-come leaking from Steven's cock and he takes his weight on one hand, slides his other up over Steven's stomach, through the stick white, slicks up his palm with it and wraps it around the hard flesh gently.

"How bad d'you wanna come, Steven?" he breathes roughly, nuzzles against Steven's jaw until he looks into Brendan's eyes, intense and focused because Brendan's his whole fucking world right now.

Steven whispers a broken plea, "please."

"Tell me," and he tightens his hand, strips Steven's dick, fucks him harder and he's not on a power trip here, he _wants _to know so desperately he can almost taste it thick and heavy on his tongue. "First time gettin' fucked, you like it?"

"Ye-yeah - oh, _fuck,_" Steven's back curves off the bed, tight bow of tension and Brendan knows he's close and thank _fuck _for that because he's about to combust, Steven's tight, relentlessly gripping muscles too good to reign in his control. "Bren - don't stop - "

He curls his body over Steven's to get at his lips, licks between them, rough and desperate and messy, no finesse, just the dragging, wet heat of tongues and spit and gasping breath.

"Promise I won't. Come on, Steven," he grinds out, feels his orgasm building, searing, ringing like an alarm bell through his veins, under his skin, through his fucking bones. "Scream for me."

And Steven does, grips the back of his neck and digs fingernails into his back hard enough he feels his skin pop, tips his face against Brendan's jaw and cries out long and loud, high and fucking beautiful. He's lost to Brendan's body, shaking, arching, clinging so tight, come spilling over Brendan's fingers and slicking up his slip-slide over Steven's dick. He screams until he's cracking, sound like a sob choking out of him, breath he can't catch stuttering and beating against Brendan's face and it's enough to see and hear him like this, like Brendan's just taken him _that _fucking high, but the feeling of Steven's muscles fluttering around his cock is the last straw he can carry before he's burying inside Steven as deep as he can get and coming with a low moan and the earth splitting and shattering beneath them.

He's twisted inside out, a raging tide crashing up through his blood washing his vision in red and burning heat, so bright he can hardly stand it. His muscles ache from the force of it and he knows, vaguely and somewhere intangible through his muddled thoughts, that it's never been this good before. Steven's hands are gentle in his hair and he's shivering from too much sensation, sagging heavy over Steven's body, sweat-sticking and too-warm.

"Oh, God," he groans, one last shudder wracking painfully through his abused muscles. "Oh." _Breath_. "God."

Steven nods against him and hums in agreement. He's shaking, breath puffing against Brendan's hair and he _has _to look at what he's done.

What he's _done. _

Slept with a student, a vulnerable one nonetheless, taken his virginity, stripped him down in a million different ways and exposed his body and his bruises to Brendan's eyes and mouth and hands. Steven's - laughing, suddenly.

"What're you chucklin' at?" he asks and his voice is a wreck but not more than Steven is, when he does look.

He's flushed pink, blond hair a dishevelled mess, eyes shining bright and lips red and spit-damp and parted in a smile, one arm thrown haphazardly above his head on the pillows and his other hand playing over the tattoo on Brendan's arm.

"What if you've ruined me for other men?"

"Oh, charming," he scoffs. "I break you in and you've already got your greedy eyes on the lookout."

"Just gettin' ready for when you've had enough of me, that's all," Steven says through a smile and it's warm enough, a little joking, not at all bitter but he's all soft insecurities and need for some kind of assurance.

Steven's already prepared for some indeterminate, future rejection and Brendan should be glad. It should ease the awkward, jarring strain across his heart. He isn't and it doesn't and what does that mean? What words can he give Steven when he barely has any sense left for himself.

"Yeah, well, don't go gettin' too excited. I'm not done with you," and the word _yet _sticks in his throat and he can't even force it out.

Steven smiles wider, flushes deeper and flicks his gaze away in such an obvious tell of his emotions. Half the time he's as locked down as a death row prisoner and the other half he wears his heart on his sleeve so glaring that Brendan could read it in the dark.

He's got enough strength back in his body to pull himself loose from Steven with an uncomfortable rush of cold. He ties the condom off and tosses it somewhere towards the bin, doesn't much matter where it landed, he feels too nicely fucked to care, and rolls off Steven to settle in next to him, splayed out on his back.

Steven shifts on the mattress, winces and pulls faces that make him laugh.

"Sore?"

"A bit."

"I can always rub something on it tomorrow."

He grips Steven's arm and drags him half over his body, wraps him up and holds him close. Another thing he doesn't really do, intimacy, _cuddling. _Fucking hell. Yet, here he is, Steven against him, warm and sweet and safe and it's so good he could gorge on it to bursting if he let himself.

"I don't even wanna think about tomorrow," Steven sighs and he's suddenly cold all over with curiosity.

"You want me to take you back home?"

Steven looks up at him from his chest. "Well, I can't stay 'ere all weekend, can I?"

"Can't you?" Fuck, the hope on Steven's face is enough to choke him. "I wouldn't feel right about leavin' you there, Steven," and then he bites the bullet and just does it, just says what he's thinking, "anyway, I wouldn't sleep if you went home. I'd only worry about you."

"Okay then," Steven murmurs softly. "I'll just text my mum tomorrow and tell her I'm alright."

"Good." He dips down, kisses Steven's forehead and pulls the duvet over them. "Pull that string, up there."

Steven plants a palm on his chest and uses him as leverage to reach up and tug the light out. He settles back in Brendan's arms, effortless fit like he's already moulded in the right shape. Or maybe it's the other way around; maybe Brendan's always had that space carved out there and waiting to be filled.

Fucking soppy thoughts, now? He's _clearly, _finally shagged his brains loose.

"So, we're spending the weekend together - "

"Go to sleep."

Steven chuckles against his collarbone, rubs his nose and lips there and makes Brendan shiver with a soft, sucking kiss.

Spending the weekend together. What the fuck is he thinking? He can't blame it on his dick - not right now anyway. He can't blame it on booze. He'd plead insanity but he feels fairly calm. Steven's in his bed, in his arms, _constantly _in his thoughts and under his skin.

He's running dry on excuses.

* * *

" - no I'm not tellin' you where I am."

Brendan yawns, stretches out his abused muscles against the kitchen counter and tries to think back to the last time he's had so much sex in such a short period of time.

Might never have happened.

Huh.

"_No, _I've told you, why would he 'ave me stayin' over at his house? Mum, I'm fine, don't worry about me, okay? I'll see you when I see you. Course I'll ring. Mum - " Steven's voice carries from the living room but he's not bothered about being heard or he'd have gone outside. Brendan stirs milk into hot black coffee and inhales the bitter steam and tries not to feel like he's eavesdropping. "Has he hurt you?" His hand closes in on the spoon handle but it's anger he can't channel into anything in particular so he tries to let it go. "I don't know why you don't just - _fine_, you know what, fine. Do what you want, I'll talk to you later."

Steven appears in the doorway, fingers raking through his hair and wearing nothing but his grey jogging bottoms.

Brendan vaguely remembers saying he'd fetch him a spare t-shirt.

Oops.

"She okay?"

"Says she is," Steven sighs, holds out a hand for one of the mugs. "Hard as nails, that woman."

"What about you?"

Steven looks down into his coffee and smiles, soft and shy. "I'm fine."

He looks young like this, half naked and rumpled and genuinely bashful, even in the face of everything he's done in the last twelve hours. "Well, yeah, obviously," Brendan scoffs. "But I meant everything else? We don't exactly have a plan here, y'know?"

Steven shrugs. "Wing it?"

"Wing it - "

"We've done alright so far."

"Yeah, if by alright you mean you gettin' beat up and me potentially losing my job - "

"No, you were right; mum says Terry hasn't mentioned the police again."

"That's not what I'm talkin' about," Brendan admits reluctantly. He didn't want to burden Steven with this but there's too much at stake not to. "Eoghan - Mr Nolan, he knows. Well, he _thinks _he knows but it might not matter if he's got proof or not. He can make it sound as bad as he wants and around about now he hates my guts so - "

Steven goes wide-eyed. "So he's gonna tell someone?"

"I don't know," he says honestly. "He wants - he wants favours," and he can't do it, can't tell Steven what Eoghan wants, it's bad enough laying this on him. "Wants me on side. I really didn't wanna worry you with this, okay? But I had to, I need you to be more careful around Will."

"It's Will that's said summat?" Steven asks and now he's angry, free hand balled into a fist and the boy sparks like lightning his temper turns that suddenly.

"Steven - "

"I should of known he'd keep tryin' to get at me and he's too much of a coward to come lookin' for a proper fight."

"Hey! Whatever you're thinking right now, just stop," Brendan snaps. "Don't touch him, don't even talk to him. If you can go as far as pretending he doesn't exist, that would be great."

"Why should I when he's been shoutin' his mouth off like that?"

"And how would kickin' his teeth in help, huh?"

"It'd help me."

"This isn't funny, Steven, I'm serious. Don't go near him," but Steven rolls his eyes, gets that look about him like he's completely impenetrable and Brendan feels it bubbling up like a geyser, _shit, _he can't clamp down on it, it's too strong, "can't you just drop it for once? For _us_?" and there is it.

There. It. Is.

The words and the way he says them, the desperate way he says _us, _all the weight he throws behind that one already loaded word.

He wants the ground to open up and swallow him.

If nothing else, it knocks the wind out of Steven's sails and leaves him gawping and at least that's amusing; funnier than the feeling of having his skin sliced down the length of his body and torn wide open, guts spilling out everywhere and his nice and tender insides exposed to the judgement of his kitchen furniture.

The silence is too thick and Brendan turns and slumps over the counter, elbows against the top and forehead against the top cabinets which are, thankfully, cool.

He almost jumps when Steven drapes himself up his back, weight slouching against him and arms folded over his shoulder blades, lips pressing into the top of his spine.

Steven mumbles softly, "okay," and Brendan swells with so much fucking fondness he could claw his own eyes out.

_Okay, _just like that. _Okay, _for us. Steven being agreeable without a fuss because Brendan said the _right_ thing and, "good," is all he says further on the subject because when he can't be sure he won't say something else dangerously _right_, it's just best not to talk.

"How are you gonna deal with Mr Nolan?"

"I'm gonna stay on his good side for the next four weeks," but that's not guaranteed to work; for all he knows, Eoghan is already writing up the report that's going to drop him in a whole world of pain.

"Except you're about as stubborn as you say I am."

Steven's warm words soak through his skin and he chuckles and finds the tension across his shoulders easing up. "Well, I got more self control than you."

"Yeah, it shows. I mean, you've only fucked me three times already since I got 'ere."

Brendan turns quickly, unbalances Steven and catches him with two firm hands on his hips. "I coulda fucked you twice that, Steven. Didn't want you to get too sore."

"Then maybe you could show me something else?"

Steven's getting hard against his hip and _fucking eighteen year olds;_ Brendan's got almost ten years on him but it's like he's suddenly regressed in Steven's presence. He doesn't know if it's that stubbornness Steven's talking about or if Steven really does just drive him that crazy and half out of his mind with all the things Brendan wants to do to him.

He wants to see Steven undone over and over and _over _again until he never recovers, until he walks around day in day out looking like he looks right now.

"Whatever you wanna try, Steven. I'm your man."

Steven breathes, "everything," against Brendan's mouth and he doesn't doubt it, Steven really does want it all.

He digs his fingers into pliant skin, inhales soap and shampoo and the lingering, faint smell of sex and thinks he hadn't intended to leave the flat today, anyway, so it's a good job.

He thinks that despite the fact he's pretty sure what Steven's asking for is much more than sex.


	5. Chapter 5

Not the final chapter, although at this point, what were you guys expecting, right? Thanks everyone for being so patient and everyone who's reviewed. Also, thank you for the amazing encouragement some of you flawless individuals have given me. I love you guys and probably would have given up and gone to live in a hole in my garden without you.

EDIT - to add the cover art by the amazing and talented teiubesc8 on Tumblr, here's to you and your studies my gorgeous girl :)

Word Count ~ 8700

* * *

"Who is it?"

Brendan looks up from his phone.

Steven's bright eyed and pink cheeked from the Sunday evening chill, chin buried inside Brendan's grey, woollen scarf and one chip held up like a dart. Brendan opens his mouth to catch it when Steven spears it across the gap between them but it bounces off his bottom lip and flies off into the grass to his left.

He's four pints of lager full with a hand full of hot chips in newspaper, straddling a brick wall with Steven shuffled up as close as he can get, his own spread legs tucked up in between Brendan's thighs.

"Anne - Miss Minniver, nothin' exciting" he says vaguely, tucks the phone back into his pocket and gives Steven a smirk. "The police don't warn you by text before they come arrest you, y'know."

"Well _I_ wouldn't know, would I?" Steven sasses back.

"Kidding me? You've got delinquent written all over you."

"Written all over me, eh? Is that another word you want me to learn?"

"Biro's at home, we'll learn it later." It's turning dark, sky washed pale and brushed artfully with dark clouds, weirdly symbolic if he felt like going there, but he doesn't really want to head home yet. "I haven't eaten chips outside in years."

"Chips always taste better outside."

"They taste the same as they taste inside."

"No, they don't," Steven tells him sagely and Brendan's found that getting alcohol in him makes him oddly wise. "It's like how coke always tastes better from a can even though it's the same coke."

"Oh, that's true."

"See, should listen to me. I could teach you a thing or two."

Steven grins at him, wide and bright, and Brendan _looks_, completely openly, at that breath-robbing smile. "Like what?"

"How to catch a chip in your mouth, for one."

"Come on then, big shot."

Brendan takes one between his fingers and holds it ready, waits for Steven to say, "go on, chuck it," before he tosses it straight up in the air. Steven throws himself back and catches it right in his mouth like a damn dolphin and Brendan can't help but whoop a bit.

"Do it again," he finds himself demanding, giddy and buzzing and warm and it's the most incredible feeling, something so simple like a few lagers down the pub and chips on a wall and it's _easy _to spend the day like this, so easy he could spend _days _like this.

Steven grins and nods, holds his hand up and gestures and Brendan throws another chip and sends it angling too far back. Steven goes after it and Brendan ends up with a hand curled in the front of his coat to stop him toppling over. He's got his head tipped right back, laughing loud and goofy, not a damn concern that the only thing holding him up is Brendan's hand dragging him forwards - not that he wants to examine the symbolism in that _too _much, either - and when he does the smarmy bugger's got the chip safely between his teeth.

"I've found your ideal job," Brendan tells him. "Sea Life Centre." Steven shoves him like Brendan expected but then he suddenly goes quiet and thoughtful. He fiddles with his bottom lip and it's a well-worn sign of nerves. "What's up?"

For a second it looks like he might just come out with it but it's never that easy and Brendan gets a mumbled, "nothin'."

"You're not actually thinking about it, are you?" Brendan asks, raises an eyebrow. "'cause it's cute but not as cute as when the seals do it."

Steven tuts, "no, don't be daft. That's not - " and Brendan's got him. "Everyone keeps talkin' about uni and college and stuff and I've been thinkin' for ages - I wanna apply."

"That's great, Steven," he says, spreads a palm on Steven's thigh and squeezes and Steven looks up through his eyelashes.

"You think?"

"Absolutely, why wouldn't I?" It's a stupid question, he _knows _why Steven'd think that. "University's different to school, it's not about learning everything 'cause you have to, it's about learning what you need because you _want _to."

Steven's bolder when he says, "I wanna do catering," and Brendan finds a grin stretching across his face.

"That's good. You've got experience for that. You should go talk to that chef guy, what's his name - "

"Tony."

"Yeah, him. See if he'll help with your application."

"Yeah?"

"Why not? You got any places in mind?"

"As far away from 'ere as possible," Steven says with a dry laugh and it catches across Brendan's nerves, jars in a way he doesn't expect and it makes him itchy and uncomfortable.

"Course," Brendan says hoarsely. "Course you wanna get away from here, why wouldn't you?"

"You really think I can do it?" and he thankfully hasn't caught Brendan's hesitation.

"Next chip decides it, ready?" He holds out his hand and waits for Steven to nod before he throws it up but not towards Steven. He catches it clean in his own mouth instead and dips his head to Steven's surprise. "It's not even a question, course you can do it."

Steven goes soft and serious and _so _adoring it feels like there's a candle flame licking at his skin. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"I don't just mean for that, I mean for everythin'."

"I told you I didn't want thanking; I'm not doin' favours."

"No, but you never said why you _were _doin' it. Could be for anything."

"I care what happens to you."

"I gathered," Steven says softly but that's not it, it's not enough, not _nearly_ enough and Steven goes on, "but you're riskin' prison for me."

Earlier he'd driven Steven round to his home to collect some things and waited for him in the next street - y_ou text me if anything happens and I'm coming in, got it? Ten minutes and I don't hear anything, I'm coming after you - _and he'd known without a shadow of a doubt and with some huge and slowly dawning acceptance that he'd have gone in there and risked everything if Steven hadn't been quick; his job, the register, prison, never working again, _everything._

Brendan looks down, sweeps the nearly finished chips onto the grass and rubs his hands against his jeans. "What can I say? I've always been reckless."

"Sucking my dick in your lab is reckless. Punchin' my stepdad then kidnapping me is just insane," Steven points out.

"Well, I'm that, too," he says offhandedly. "Anyway, what're you on about, kidnapping?"

"That's what the police report'll say."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yup, attempted murder, kidnapping and virginity theft." Steven's smiling, content, for now it seems, to let Brendan off with _another_ non-answer. "Add that to inappropriate dick sucking and public indecency - "

"When was I publicly indecent?"

"When you tossed me off in a field?"

Brendan laughs, low and filthy. "Oh, yeah, that was fun. Hey, there's some trees over there, they gettin' you going?"

"Oh, aye, yeah. It was the trees that really did it for me; right hippie, me."

Steven's funny.

He's sarcastic and quick and stubborn and moody, hot tempered and the biggest pain in the arse Brendan's ever met and he's met a few. He doesn't listen but sometimes he listens _too _well and Brendan's told him things that would send most sane people running for the hills so there's obviously something wrong with his faculties -

"Gimmie your hand," he says and holds out his, palm up, and Steven eyes him suspiciously before he slides his fingers across Brendan's.

He pulls Steven up off the wall and close, inches between the entire length of them thick with body heat against the chilly air. He doesn't really know what he's doing, just opening himself up to the warmth and closeness and endless miles of sky above them, some kind of crazy abandon he's felt more in the last months than in the whole years of time since the night he went to bed a boy and woke up a man. He links his fingers between Steven's own, palm to palm, takes his other hand and does the same, looks up and _up _at the watercolour canvas of grey and navy-black, pewter clouds enclosed with pure silver lining, the faint shadows of stars, and he breathes deep.

Then he hooks one foot around Steven's ankle and yanks.

Steven makes a sound like a puppy yelping and Brendan grips his hands tight to stop him going over too hard. He recovers quickly, though, booze be damned, and calls Brendan something downright rude before trying to kick his legs out from under him in return. Brendan doesn't let go of him, just bends his elbows to drag Steven close and gets both arms around his middle before tipping him over properly.

"What are you, twelve?" Steven sputters from his back in the grass and Brendan's almost inclined to agree with him when he wraps Steven up and rolls them down the gentle incline into a sprawled heap at the bottom.

He chokes insincerely through his laughing, "I fell, sorry," before he tears some grass from the ground, shoves his way in between spread legs and tries to stuff it into Steven's mouth.

Steven bats at him, half choking, half bursting giggles as he blows grass all over the place and tries to cry out, "give - over - "

"Shouldn't talk with your mouth full, Steven, s'rude," and he grabs Steven's hands and pins them into the ground beside his head, feels the rise and fall of Steven's chest against his own.

Then he blows a single blade of grass off Steven's chin and kisses him wide open and as deep as he can get.

Steven's fingers grip his own tight, body melting against him, moulding and shaping to let Brendan fit. He nips at Steven's bottom lip, pulls it between his own again and again to feel the soft swell of it until there's words pushed into him, his name on a sigh, "Brendan - I - " and what comes next hangs there between them like a knot of solid tension.

Brendan can't move, wants to cover Steven's mouth with his own again to stop more words escaping, dangerous words, but he's frozen.

_A-hem._

"The fuck?" he blurts out, jumps back about half a foot and looks up to find a neon-vested, slightly balding community support officer looming over the wall and gazing sternly down at them.

"Have a fall, did you gentlemen?" he asks down the five or so yard incline and if Brendan's heart wasn't pounding out the execution drum call against his ribcage, he might laugh and make a witty comment but as it happens he can hardly catch his breath or shut his damn, gawping mouth.

Steven steps in. "Yeah, I mean, what else would we be doin'?" he says sheepishly, shoves at Brendan until he gets off and they can both stand and try regain their dignity.

"I wonder," the officer says sternly. "I trust you'll be moving on?"

"Yeah, we were just - weren't we?" Steven looks up at Brendan.

"Course. Moving on, officer, no need to worry about us."

He gives the guy a parting smirk before pressing against the bottom of Steven's back to get him moving in the opposite direction, out towards the asphalt and fenced-off play area at the centre of the grass. When they're far enough away, Steven knocks their shoulders together and gives him a bright smile.

"Told you, delinquent."

"You were the one what tripped me over and tried to choke me with grass!" Steven squeaks affrontedly and knocks into him again. "What do we do now, then?"

Brendan considers it. "Well, tomorrow mornin' I drop you off back home since you're so determined to go back, we do school like normal, try not to have sex anywhere and umm - repeat that until, y'know - until - "

"I _meant_," Steven blessedly interrupts him with a laugh. "What we doin' now? We off back to yours or what?"

"Oh, oh, yeah," he splutters. "Yeah, you wanna?"

"I know what I wanna do," Steven says, soft and low in that way that's fast becoming like an IV line straight to his dick.

"Christ, you're like Pandora's Box; open you up and there's a sex-crazed monster inside."

"How do you know I didn't mean we could go watch a film or summat?"

Brendan darts out in front him him, turns and pulls Steven into his arms, slides one hand around his front, palm splayed and running down to between his legs. His fingers touch against already swollen flesh and he half smiles, swallows down the spit gathering in his throat thickly.

"You didn't." He cups Steven through his jeans and rubs, gentle then harder, and Steven arches into his body, grips his shoulders and moans, so responsive, like an instrument Brendan's getting very quickly adept at playing. "I can read you like a book, Steven."

Steven tuts then asks like a challenge, "alright then, what am I thinkin' right now?"

"You're thinking - " Brendan considers him for a moment, never gets tired of looking at Steven's face; he's endlessly fascinated by his features. "How great I am?"

"Yeah and about how modest you are."

_"Ha ha. _You're thinking about me naked?"

"Always but that's not all."

"Tell me, then."

"Just that I've had - " and then Steven stops and looks down, smiles shyly and blushes pink across his cheeks. Brendan lets him work through it himself but he can't take his eyes off that blush. "I've had a really nice weekend and I just - I just wanted you to know."

Oh.

"Oh."

Thanks? Me too? Why does it have to end?

Wait, _what_?

Fucking hell.

"Anyway," Steven says quickly and grabs Brendan's wrist to give him a tug. "I'm freezin', come on."

Brendan staggers forward and then regains some of his balance. It shouldn't be that easy to disarm him like that, he's a grown man for fucks sake, but Steven manages to do it constantly. He throws Brendan's equilibrium out the window, all that tight control he normally has on his emotions, locked down and safe where they can't see the light of day, disguised under layers of apathy and nonchalance, and Steven breaks through into the chaos and untangles the good from the bad and makes him shine.

Steven makes him feel -

- good.

It's not something he's used to.

Good is precarious, it can't last, not in Brendan's world. If he has good, the bad - and the bad _always _follows - is all the more painful.

It's ironic that he knows this yet he's gone and gotten himself involved in the most dangerous relationship he could have cooked up.

Maybe he is insane, afterall.

* * *

"Mark, _careful _with the - Christ, you know that's acid, right? As in you can hurt yourself with it?"

"Sorry, teach."

"Go put some gloves on and - don't call me teach."

"Sorry, teach."

Brendan digs his fingertip into the corner of his eye like it might press his headache out of his eye socket or something. He hates - well, _everything_ today. He hates the dusty smell of his subterranean lab, he hates Will Savage's little smirk every time Brendan scolds his idiot bother, he hates the feel of dry paper under his hands, chalk under his nails.

He hates the fact he'd dropped Steven off at home early this morning and had nothing but the worst images flickering through his brain like a super 8 reel on repeat ever since.

Mostly he hates the two empty stools on the bench to his right.

He wants to throw something.

At Will's head.

He's fiddling with the hole punch Anne bought him - _look it's got your name on it and everything - yeah, Anne, in permanent marker, where you wrote it -_ and genuinely considering it when the lab door swings open and Steven and Amy come tumbling in, "sorry, sorry we're late."

They slip into their seats and Steven flashes him a quick smile but Brendan's temper feels like an S.O.S flare and he slams one hand down on the desk with a _crack._

"_Sorry we're late_? That's all you've got to say?" His voice is tight and he's making a scene and it's frightening how skewed his self-preservation instincts are when it comes to Steven. "Christ, d'you even - " Steven's shaking his head and it's enough to make him stutter and suck the words back up before they tumble out. "It's too close to the end to be skippin' lessons, now. See me after. Everyone get on with what you were doin', I'll be back in a minute."

He stands up, sound of his stool _scraping _like a wailing old-woman over the rough floor, painfully aware of every eye on the room on him as he pulls the door open far too viciously and shuts it with a violent _slam._

It's better than losing his shit actually in front of his students but only marginally.

He heads down the corridor into the main hall, steps outside and breathes in the crisp November air, clenches his hands and and tries to get a grip. This morning it was Brendan that'd been ranting on and on about the necessity to _just be cool, act like normal _to Steven and now here he is storming out of classrooms like a teenager himself.

Eileen had always said he didn't have the temperament to be a teacher. Might've been why he'd calmed down so much over the years, just as an effort to further piss her off; she always hated been proved wrong and he'd always loved been the one to do it.

"Brendan?"

Carmel comes tottering out of _nowhere _and he puts his hands over his face and groans, "_what_?"

"Aww, class givin' you some trouble?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"Well, don't worry about it, love. I've had a little peak at the assessments from last month in Eoghan's office, don't tell him, and yours is practically glowing!"

He snaps his head up to look at her, "what?" because - well, _what?_

"Oh, aye," she nods enthusiastically, all bright smiles. "You've got nothin' to worry about. Anyway, I've got to get this to our Mercy, so."

She waves a yellow folder about and he vaguely hears the sound of her heels clicking away across the path through his foggy bafflement. He wants to sit somewhere in a quiet room and dissect this information, examine it and try and piece it back together until it makes sense but he's got a class waiting.

Least his anger's rolled back some.

The rest of the morning passes in relative calm and furtive, frowny little glances from Steven that he tries his best to ignore. There's an acid spill over Dodger's bench, and _somehow, _as if by sheer coincidence,Texas' hand, that he's not the least bit surprised about but other than that, mainly just Brendan left with his thoughts.

He signals Steven and Amy to stay where they are when everyone else packs up and goes off to lunch, leans up against their bench with his palms flat on the wood and says calmly, "you think you'd have learned by now that it's rude to just wander in whenever you feel like it. I ain't running a holiday camp, here, y'know."

Steven slants his eyes over to Amy and neither of them answer for a few long seconds, until Amy blurts out, "Ste took me to the doctors," like she can't keep it in anymore.

Ah.

"Are you okay?" he asks her seriously.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just _really_ needed to go and I didn't wanna go on my own."

"It's okay, Amy," He covers his mouth and rubs his fingertips across his stubble. "As long as you're okay." He looks between them, gaze slipping off Steven quickly like it can't catch. "You can go, both of you."

Amy starts to pack up her things and Brendan sees Steven's mouth opening like he's about to say something, probably _can I talk to you _or something and Brendan shakes his head and mouths _later _quick and a bit panicked.

Steven pouts, honest to God _pouts._

* * *

Eoghan's door rattles, he's banging on it that hard.

"He _said _he didn't want to be disturbed today," the receptionist, Nancy_, _now that he looks at her nametag, tells him for the second time, hovering at the back of him like she's not sure what to do.

He rounds on her, "well I've a need to disturb him, it's urgent."

"He's not going to just - "

The door clicks unlocked and creaks open at his back. "Brendan, always a pleasure. Nancy, get back to work," and Brendan can tell by the pinch of her face that didn't go down well.

He barges in past Eoghan, knocks him with his shoulder and waits until the door's locked back up before he says in a low voice, "what are you playin' at?"

"You'll have to be more specific; I'm a busy man, Brendan."

Christ, Brendan wants to punch that smug smirk off his face. "I'm talking about you threatening me with an official report and then writing up a glowing assessment."

Eoghan slips past him far too close and Brendan jumps back like he's been shocked. He watches Eoghan shuffle through the papers on his desk until he holds up one with Brendan's name on it. "You mean this? Let's call it a first draft. Let's say, this _could _be your assessment, that your recommendation could look very nice indeed when you leave here in four weeks."

"I thought we'd settled this," Brendan grinds out. "I'm not bowing to your threats."

"Threats? I prefer _generous_ _offer _myself."

If he sounds slightly desperate when he asks, "what the _hell _do you want?" then he's entitled.

"Told you Brendan, I want us to get to know each other better, that's all," Eoghan says and it's that low, serious, _dangerous _way he spoke about Steven. "Would it really be all that bad considering the alternative?"

"Alternative?"

"Scandal, angry parents, a trial, your boy as a witness in court. How about your face all over the news and papers, pervert teacher takes advantage of vulnerable student. Gay, too, so you know the paper's would have a field day with _that _detail, being how they are."

He can see it all playing out like a news reel across his blurred vision, his name splashed in red across the bottom, cameras flashing in his face on his way up the courtroom steps, getting led down to the cells with Steven screaming and frightened and trying to hold on.

Eoghan's painting him the picture of a nightmare Brendan's considered but never fully visualised and it's enough to make bile swell up to burn his throat.

He swallows it down and feigns ignorance, "you've got nothing to blackmail me _with_, Eoghan. I haven't done anything."

"I've got enough to make the taint stick, though, to get you investigated. Then - who knows what they'd find."

"Nothing, they'd find _nothing._"

"I think we both know that isn't true, Brendan."

Silence. Stalemate.

It's almost like Eoghan's trying to back him into a confession and it suddenly hits him like a punch to the gut that he is. Brendan goes frantic, compressed and tight and he looks up and around and _spots _the damn CCTV camera in the corner of the office.

Every second he's spent in here is recorded in cold, hard fact.

_It's not even bad, it's fine, you never gave anything away, _but they're platitudes he's reeling off inside his head. Brendan had sat in here with Terry Hay and watched Steven cringe under his hand and he _knows _without seeing it that he gave away enough to make a man as devious as Eoghan very determined.

He's exposed Brendan's weakness, showed him a possible future filled with nothing but pain for both him and Steven, and when Brendan finally says, "okay," it crumbles out, dry and whispery and flat like old paper. "Okay. Okay - "

Eoghan's a snake when he smiles, dripping pleasure like poison. "Wonderful. No doubt you'll be free this Friday evening?"

"Yeah."

"We'll have lots to discuss. I look forward to it."

It takes fuck know how many seconds before he realises he's stood stock still in the middle of the office, staring at Eoghan's desk, Eoghan comfortably behind it now and shuffling paperwork like Brendan's not even there. It's just another act of power-play, a way to make him feel small and dismissed.

He's shaking all of a sudden, fingers curling up into fists, some huge outburst clawing to the surface that he's not even trying to hold back because he's _fucked_ either way. Eoghan's desk lamp is in his hand, pulled free of its plug with a vicious _crack _and then it's in a hundred pieces against the wall, fracturing and spitting glass over the carpet, the tall plant in the corner, the chair Steven sat in that Wednesday evening.

Eoghan jumps a foot, rolls back in his chair, a clatter against the window ledge behind him, a startled, "_fuck, Brendan!"_ and Brendan's breathing hard through his parted lips, that one flash boil of rage evaporating as quickly as it erupted.

There's silence, long, drawn out, _painful. _Eoghan's coloured by shrewd and shadow where he half-stands, half out of his seat, considering and giving nothing away.

Stalemate.

"I presume you'll be paying for a replacement?" Eoghan eventually says, calm as anything. Brendan inhales, raises his head up, shuts himself down and nods. "Good."

He turns to leave, slowly because he's _not_ running, _not_ escaping like a trapped creature, and he's got one hand on the door handle but Eoghan has one last stone to throw, one more string to pluck to leave Brendan resonating for the rest of the day.

"Save it for Friday, hmm?"

* * *

It's twenty to four when his lab door swings open and crashes off the wall and shut again.

He'd been expecting it but it still makes him wince.

Steven tosses his bag under the desk, throws off his jacket, just like he always does. Then he starts talking, another thing he always does. "You were a bit of a dick earlier, wasn't you? Thought you'd be a bit more chilled out after spendin' most of the weekend shaggin' me."

Brendan's slumped heavy over his desktop, tension through the curve of his spine and he's chewing on the back of his index finger, grating his teeth over the ridges on the nail and catching the sore skin of his cuticle until he's pretty sure what he's tasting is blood.

"Shoulda text me or something," and it's bad when he can't even care how much like Steven's fucking _husband _he sounds right now.

"I was a bit busy worryin' about Amy bleedin' herself to death, to be honest," Steven snaps. When he gets no reaction he pushes on. "Oi. What's matter?"

"I saw Mr Nolan earlier," he says tightly and it gets Steven sighing and slipping around the desk.

"Guessin' it didn't go right well?" Steven's hand slides over one shoulder and squeezes, "bloody hell, Brendan," and then the other hand and he's _digging _his fingers into Brendan's skin and muscle and leaning heavy against him to push weight, to knead out the tension there like he's working bread.

One of the first things Brendan had noticed about Steven were his all-too-capable and frankly obscenely lovely hands and he's just spent an entire weekend teaching the boy how to break him apart with touch like a fucking expert.

Brendan doesn't stand a chance against it.

"Guessed right," he sighs and Steven's thumbs make circles at the base of his neck until he's shivering and then it's a moan, soft and low, Steven's breath against his skin.

"Feel good?"

He hums and closes his eyes because yes, fucking amazing, actually, and he lets himself relax into that amazing pressure. "This mean you forgive me?"

Steven scoffs, "no, I'm still mad at you," and pushes his hands up over Brendan's shoulders. "You were the one who said _be cool _remember," he says and does air quotes in front of Brendan's face for emphasis, leans himself heavy against his back and props his chin on Brendan's shoulder.

"Yeah but I never said _I_ was gonna be cool."

"Do as I say, not as I do?"

"I'm a teacher, Steven," he says by way of explanation and Steven shoves his weight forward by way of _that's not good enough you stupid prat_."I was worried about you, okay? I drop you off back at the fucking _Musters _and you don't show up at school - naturally I think they've killed you and buried you under the patio."

"Aww," Steven croons and presses a kiss on his cheek and Brendan tuts and jerks his head away, _give over, soppy sod._ "If there's owt wrong I'll get in touch, you know I will."

"We're not very good at this, are we?"

"What?"

"This, being together, being at school, acting normal."

"Not really, no," Steven says brightly like it doesn't change a damn thing anyway, like they could be _dangerous _and he wouldn't give a crap as long as they were together. "So what about Mr Nolan, then?"

"Yeah, about that. Could you go back to being in a mood for a minute, I gotta tell you something you're _really _not gonna like."

Steven groans, "oh, fucks sake, what?"

Brendan takes his wrist and pulls him back around in front of him and then thinks _fuck it _and drags Steven right into his lap to straddle him on the chair. "If you flip out I'm gonna dump you on the floor, got that?"

"Bren, just _tell me_."

Brendan takes a second to absorb the shock of _Bren_, fucking sweet and familiar and so amazing he wants to hear it again but for now there's more important things. "Remember when I told you Eoghan wanted something from me?" He waits for Steven to nod. "He wants sex."

If the situation wasn't so messed up, Brendan would be laughing at the expression on Steven's face; slack shock that turns to utter offence like he can't believe what he's hearing and then he squeaks, "no!" so sharp and high pitched he sounds about twelve. Then he devolves into a stream of almost incomprehensible outrage, "the - the fucking - he's blackmailing you for - he wants to shag - he can fuck off!"

Brendan tries, "yeah, I know," but clearly Steven isn't done yet_. _He climbs to his feet and starts pacing and gesturing, talking a mile a minute.

"He should get done for this, you can't blackmail someone for sex, that's - it's disgusting, it's wrong - it's _illegal_!"

"So is sleeping with your students - "

"I don't care, it's not the same. What he's doin', he's sick, it's rape," and that's pretty fucked up because Brendan hadn't thought of it in those terms before. He's cold all over, locked in a cycle of hazy nightmares and out of it for too long to realise Steven's working himself up into something like genuine rage until he hears, loud and clear, "I'm gonna fuckin' kill him," and then Steven's off, he's _off, _out the door and Brendan's reeling and up onto his feet and chasing after him with his heart pounding thrash metal in his windpipe.

There's nobody in this corridor but there's still people about the building, teachers and some students and cleaners, and Brendan really doesn't want to have this out in a fucking _hallway. _He catches up to Steven, reaches out and grips the unbuttoned sleeve of Steven's shirt then drags him close, opens the door to his left and slings Steven inside. It's one of the science store cupboards, tiny four by four feet and filled with shelves of boxes, rubber gloves and protective eye wear and the like.

"Are you fucking _insane?_" Brendan hisses in a rough whisper_._

Steven's honest-to-God angrier than Brendan's ever seen him, glazed in the eyes and trembling and that complete abandonment of sense that Brendan's so painfully familiar with. It's crazy, the two of them together are crazy; they're like chemicals mixed together to make an explosion, Brendan's oxygen over Steven's fire to make it burn bright and out of control.

Steven tries to shove past him but Brendan gets his hands spread on Steven's chest, gets him shoved back against the shelves.

"Get off me - "

Brendan shoves him again, harder and with a clatter of boxes.

"No! Steven, just calm down and look at me." He does, suddenly, wide-eyed and still furious but it's like something's cleared. Steven's breathing hard, gripping his fingers into the front of Brendan's shirt like talons. "You with me?"

"Fuck, I can't - "

"What? Tell me, come on, it's okay, what can't you do, Steven?" Brendan urges because he knows how important it is to drag this out where Steven can't hurt someone with it.

"I can't control it - I wanna kill him - it's not normal, I'm not - "

"Hey," he cups one hand around Steven's jaw and tips his head, looks him right in the eye and says, "it's okay, you _can _control it. Remember what I told you? Remember what's important? _You, _Steven, you're important."

Steven's eyes fall shut and he shakes, all that violence under his skin like something trying to erupt. Then he surges up like a wave, catches Brendan's mouth in a kiss that bruises, pours all that rage out and _into _Brendan and he takes it all; if Steven can't shoulder it alone then Brendan will gladly share the weight.

"Show me," Steven _demands _against his lips and he means _show me how important I am, show me how to make it stop._

So Brendan does, grips Steven's hips tightly and grinds him back against the shelves, _shows _Steven what he does to him, how crazy he makes Brendan feel, how fucking hard he is already just from this; there's no words to adequately tell this story so Brendan doesn't try. He speaks with his body instead, speaks with his fingers tearing at Steven's trouser buttons and his lips grazing heat against Steven's jaw.

Steven's all tension and rolling motion against him, this completely stripped down and raw thing, more vulnerable than Brendan's ever seen him. It burrows deep inside his skin like the fingernails digging into his shoulders and he feels like he's opening up to take Steven in, wrap him up and shield him from everything with a fierce, overwhelming sort of protectiveness he only feels for Cheryl and his boys.

It's like he's catching Steven's desperation and the air in this tiny room is like the seconds before an explosion, highly charged and too thick to breathe. He's got one hand curled in a fist around Steven's dick and the other curled around his neck and Steven's trying to say something like he's choking on the words.

"I need - "

"Yeah, Steven, whatever you need - "

"Fuck me - "

"Steven, this ain't - look where we are - "

"I don't care, _please,_" and he can't refuse that, can't refuse Steven a damn thing like this.

"Gotta be quick."

"S'not gonna take long."

_Fuck._

He knows that's true, Steven's shaking like crazy, solid and hot in his hand and slick with precome. There's nothing here to help them along but he thinks maybe Steven's not gonna need much help anyway and Brendan spits in his hand, waits until Steven struggles out of his pants and boxers then he grabs Steven's thigh and hooks it over his hip, presses him back against the lowest shelf and reaches under the curve of his arse to work him open.

Steven tips his head back and shuts his eyes and breathes a hitching sigh. Brendan mouths against his parted lips, whispers, "relax, I've got you," and works two fingers inside the tight heat of Steven's body.

"I know, I know," it's like an invocation curling in the air between them; it's more than words, it's Steven's trust, it's Steven's -

- the depth of what he feels for Brendan, the word Brendan doesn't dare so much as think.

He brings up his hand, spits again, tries to slick Steven up as much as he can, fingers him deep and slow like he's rubbing the muscles loose until Steven's impatient, pulling him in with a foot against the small of his back but the boy's half out of his mind and Brendan's not going to risk hurting him, not for anything.

Steven's on him when Brendan fumbles with his own buttons, licking a wet stripe over his own hand and wrapping around Brendan's cock and he hadn't expected it, lets out a low and loud groan that echoes like a ricocheting bullet around the tiny store cupboard.

There goes his self preservation again.

He slicks Brendan up with his own spit and Brendan grips his thighs, hauls him up against him and half-supported against the shelf, legs wrapped tight over his hips and Steven holding him, positioning the tip of his dick against his hole until Brendan can push in the first slow inch.

There's so much friction, spit not enough, too tight; Steven doesn't care, rolls his hips to swallow him down further, _more _inches, more stretch, burn, tight, _tight _heat.

"Jesus - " Brendan thinks he might have whispered it, know he's got about ten seconds of self-control left before he fucks Steven through the shelves.

"_Brendan_."

Five seconds.

He rocks his hips gently, eases in and out a few short thrusts then builds it up to long strokes, drags one hand up the length of Steven's back and curls his fingers over a shoulder to pull Steven down onto his dick when he pushes up.

Steven's fingernails scrabble for purchase against the shelf above his head. The wood and boxes clatter with every movement. Something falls to the floor to his left. He doesn't care, he's so fucking close and Steven's a tight wire of tension against him. They're gasping, breathing ragged, foreheads tipped together and the sound like a tsunami in his ears, this tiny world they've made together, intimate and hazy like nobody could penetrate it.

Pressure builds, it's right there_, _that desperate edge. He dislodges his nails from Steven's shoulder and pushes a hand between them while he can still think straight, curls his fingers around the solid length of his dick; it's gonna be so fucking messy but he doesn't care about that either, just strokes Steven, fucks him hard and feels the muscles swallowing up his cock start to tighten as Steven starts to come undone.

He tips his head back, starts to cry out and Brendan pushes him hard back against the shelf and flings the hand supporting him up and over his mouth to stop the sound escaping. Steven jerks silently, violently against him and Brendan can't stop the eighteen wheel lorry of his orgasm from slamming through his body. He's uprooted and tossing through the air, hands on Steven the only thing grounding him to where they are, pressing his lips into the back of his own hand against Steven's mouth to stop from making noise of his own with Steven's bright blue eyes watching him the whole time with something terrifyingly close to worship. He's so fucking glad he's got Steven's mouth covered because he knows what would come out if he didn't.

He can feel it himself, forced to the surface by Steven's anger and vulnerability and the soft curve of his lips under his palm, the black sweep of his lashes against his flushed skin, the warmth of his breath puffing against Brendan's face; Brendan's almost floored by the all-consuming surge of - it's something like adoration. It's more than adoration. It's an earthquake rattling apart his entire foundation. He's too flayed alive to deny it right now and there's not an inch between them, nothing to shield him from Steven's armour piercing gaze and he's too afraid to remove his hand.

Except he doesn't need to worry -

"Hello?"

_Banging _and how long has thatbeing going on?

"Everything alright in there?"

Time slows to a crawl. Steven's eyes go wide. Brendan's heart doesn't beat. He hears, through cotton wool, the rattle of the metal doorhandle and the sound _slams _into him like gravity reasserting and dragging everything back to earth with a resounding thud. He moves faster than he's ever moved in his fucking life, throws himself back against the door and grips the handle hard enough that whoever's on the other side can't turn it.

He finds his voice from somewherebut it's like roadkill the way it scrapes through his throat. "Yeah, everything's fine."

"Mr Brady?"

"Will!?"

He feels the whiplash-strain in his neck when he turns over his shoulder to look at Steven so fast he's dizzy. Steven's _own _hands slap over his mouth and Brendan can see the crinkle at the corners of his eyes that mean he's trying not to shriek out some horrible, highly inappropriate giggle. Steven's shaking his head furiously and Brendan fucking _knows - _

- he can't believe it either; the Universe simply hates them, it's the only explanation.

"Mr Brady, what's going on?"

"Nothing, umm - " Steven's got nothingto help him clearly. "Practical joke," he blurts out and runs with it, what the hell, this can't get much worse. "Somebody jammed the lock. Could you go fetch one of the janitors for me please, Will?"

"But - I thought you said everything was fine."

Brendan squeezes his eyes shut, _Jesus _this kid is fucking annoying. "I'm not dying, am I? Go get the janitor, _Christ_."

There's a too-long silence and thank fuck Brendan kept hold of the handle because Will tries it again, the little shit. Then he mumbles, "okay then," and Brendan hears him shuffle off.

Steven's breathing great, heaving peals of laughter as quiet as he can and Brendan's sagging back against the door, heart a mile a minute to the point where he genuinely feels like he's about to have a heart attack. "We've - gotta - get - outta - here - " he gasps and they dress quickly, end up looking exactly like what they just did - in a fucking _store cupboard _in a well-travelled hallway in the school Brendan teaches at where he's _fucking_ one of his students. He whispers, vaguely, "this was such a stupid fucking idea," when he cracks the door open to peer out.

There's nobody around and he grabs Steven, shoves him out and shuts the door, waits half a minute then slips out himself to quickly half-jog up to his lab.

Steven's sat on his desk already, elbows on his knees and hunched over trying to catch his breath.

Brendan can't think of a damn thing to say, can hardly reach his voice through the layers of genuine fear rolling over him like thick slime, so he locks the lab door, covers the distance between them and half collapses into Steven's body as the post-adrenaline surge leeches all his energy. Steven holds him close between his legs, strokes his fingers through his hair and it's like the roles are reversed suddenly; Steven's this steady rock and Brendan's trembling uncertainty against him. Warmth soaks through the cold, safety through the danger. He curls into Steven's arms and clings to his back and doesn't have it in him to be ashamed at the weakness on display.

He's never taken this kind of comfort from anyone before.

_This boy isn't just anyone._

Steven kisses his temple, whispers, "it's okay, he hasn't seen anything, he doesn't have a clue," and Brendan soaks in his words too, lets them wash him calm. "Don't worry about Will, you worry about Mr Nolan and let me worry about Will."

"That doesn't inspire much confidence, Steven," he murmurs against Steven's throat and feels the vibration of the chuckle on his lips.

"I promise I won't do anything stupid." He cups Brendan's jaw and pulls back to look at him. "I mean it this time, okay? I get it, I get what's important." Steven kisses him, once, twice, quick and sweet. "It's you, you're important."

For the millionth time this afternoon, Brendan's almost knocked on his arse with emotions too big to process and he honestly doesn't think his poor, raw nerves can handle much more of this. He doesn't know what to say, the words don't really comprehend; all this time Brendan's being saying it but Steven's turned it around and given Brendan's life this meaning and he doesn't -

- he doesn't have to.

_Bangbangbangbang._

"Mr Brady?"

"Are you _fucking _kidding me? Look presentable, quick!" Brendan tucks in his shirt and Steven does the same. There's drying come across both their clothes but it's not toonoticeable unless you're looking and he hopes to Christ that Will's not. He calls out, shakily, "what d'you want, Will?" to buy him some time.

Except time is clearly not on his side today, either.

The door clicks and opens, just _opens, _just like that, and suddenly Will Savage is in the doorway, perplexed as all hell. There's a horrifying, agonising split second where they stare at each other, Brendan snug up between Steven's spread legs, very clearly adjusting their clothes and then Brendan jumps back about four feet like he's been shocked justas Jim strolls in with a ring of jangling keys hooked into his blue overalls. Then, Will's wide-eyed shock turns nasty, narrow-eyed and lip curled up and Brendan really_, really _can't take much more of this. If the world throws up any more surprises today he's going to snap and set fire to the chemical stockroom in the corner.

"This young man said there was a problem?" Jim says and gestures to Will.

"Nah, thanks, Jim. The lock on the safety closet was jammed but Steven here managed to get it open," Brendan lies smoothly despite his blood turning to ice and Jim nods easily.

"I tell 'em all the time they need to replace some of the hardware in this place but bloody Nolan never listens to me."

"Does he ever listen to anyone?"

Jim chuckles, rolls, his eyes. "Right well, if there's nothin' else, I'll be off."

"Yeah, take care, mate."

Silence, tense and painful.

Steven's face a mask of cold stone, hatred carved into every feature.

Brendan trying to pin down something steady.

Will speaks first. "I knew it."

"Knew what, Will?" Brendan asks with a firm voice, deep and just a little bit threatening.

"Knew that you two were up to something dodgy."

"Dunno what you're talking about. Don't you have somewhere better to - "

"Don't patronise me, I know what I saw," Will interrupts sharply, look in his eyes a bit wild now, something genuinely, horribly cruel, maybe even insane simmering just beneath the surface of his cool, watchful demeaner. "And soon everyone else will know, too. Unless - "

Steven hops off the desk at Brendan's side and says just as sharply, with just as much danger, "unless you want somethin' _really_ nasty happenin' to you, Will, I'd think about droppin' this."

Brendan grips Steven's wrist when he moves forward and jerks him back but Will just _doesn't _know when to stop. "That's right, put a leash on your good little dog, Mr Brady."

He expects carnage but it never comes and despite the situation he's so fucking proud when Steven steps back, breathes deep through his nose and doesn't rise to it. It helps him, too; he feeds of Steven's forced calm and it clears his head.

"Unless what, Will? You gonna blackmail me?"

"Maybe."

"With what? That secret hidden camera footage? With Jim your eyewitness to - precisely _nothing?_"

Will goes hesitant in the face of Brendan's calm. "I'll tell Mr Nolan what I saw."

"You mean, like you did last time? Do it, we'll probably have _another_ good laugh about it over drinks on Friday."

Will doesn't know the half of it but he doesn't need to, Brendan just needs to squash his nerve enough to keep him quiet and it looks like it's worked for now. He's frowning, huffing, fists balled up and it's all impotent rage. Will's not in this for the moral objection, he's not going to run to the nearest police station with concerns about a student. He's going to go home and consider exactly how this might work in _his_ favour until he can come up with a workable plan for his own gain but hopefully, by then, Brendan will be long gone from this fucking place.

"Now. Haven't you got a home to go to?"

"This isn't over."

"Oh, I think it is," Brendan all but growls and he sees Will flinch back a good foot towards the exit.

He gives them a parting, angry sneer before slamming the door with a violent crack that scrapes and jars over Brendan's tortured nerves. With an absolutely desperate _need, _he wants nothing more than to drink a full bottle of something strong enough to burn off his tastebuds, then pass out into oblivion for a good twelve hours. He wants to shut out the world and just exist in peace and quiet and uncomplicated until his head's not banging out a full orchestra and his chest is free of this crushing vice.

"It's not over, y'know," Steven says softly.

Brendan rounds on him and snaps, "I know!" with a violence that startles both of them.

He tries to claw it back but it's lodged there until Steven speaks again, just as soft but with an edge of something trembling. "And are you goin' for drinks with Mr Nolan on Friday, an' all?"

"Yeah, I don't have a choice. Specially not now."

The words come out blunt and flat and Steven dips his head and swallows with a click, shutters down and goes blank in that way Brendan hates. He hates even more that it's _him_ that's forced Steven behind the mask but right now, he's reeling to much to reach out.

"Right."

"Come on, I've gotta get out of here, this place is doin' my head in."

They get their stuff, lock the door behind them, head out into the crisp cool of the evening turning autumn, late November and the sun's already setting. Brendan doesn't say a word and neither does Steven and he feels the distance stretching between them like a physical pain.

At the wrought-iron gate, Brendan asks flatly, "d'you wanna lift home?" and Steven says _no, tah, _and even though Brendan'd known he'd refuse it still stings. He still can't reach out, he can't close the gap.

He watches Steven head off in the opposite direction, head bowed and hands in his pockets, and Brendan knows what he feels, knows exactly what this emotion is that's buried deep like a splinter and feels as powerful as an atomic bomb; he knows it with a bone-deep tired weariness and the kind of acceptance that only comes after fighting a losing battle.

He just wishes he was brave enough to fight for this, too.


	6. Chapter 6

Word Count ~ 8000

* * *

For the first time since Monday, Brendan can breathe.

Thursday night and they're in a quaint, amber-lit little restaurant that Anne's been banging on about for weeks, _Riley brings me sometimes - when you're not wishing him dick-less, y'mean?,_ snuggled down in a back booth under a bundle of pretty, red paper lanterns.

He watches Anne wave a teriyaki chicken skewer at him offhandedly, listens to her story about her crazy sister who once ripped of a diamond merchant with the help of her lover Patrick, some Private Investigator from Chelmsford, like the femme fatale straight out of a film noir. He sips his wine like he's actually civilised instead of with the usual kind of alcoholic zeal reserved for really bad weeks.

It's nice.

" - anyway it turned out that Patrick was a bit," she twirls her finger at her temple and whistles, "so Max had to come up with a plan to get away with the stuff they'd nicked without him coming after her."

"What did she do?"

"She drugged him, locked him in his bedroom and ran for the hills."

"Wait, he's not - "

"No he's not _dead, _Brendan. There was a landline in there."

"She locked him up with a phone? What was the point of that?"

"Well, she hadn't paid the bills that month," Anne says and Brendan snorts into his glass of red. "A day later she sent BT a cheque. Clever is my Maxine."

"Jesus."

"Well, she's clever when there's money involved, anyway. Not so much with the men." She reaches over the little table and plucks a piece of pork off his plate with her fingers. Brendan gives her a smack with his chopsticks. "She's shacked up with some little fella called Kevin, now, and I swear he's the creepiest little bastard I've ever met in my life."

"What happened to the diamonds? She sell 'em?"

"Some of 'em. She kept a couple," and then Anne holds up her right hand and wiggles her middle finger, makes the ring catch the low light and refract and sparkle.

He laughs, "very nice," and she grins at him brightly in that way that makes her nose crinkle up that he finds embarrassingly endearing.

"Anyway, it's nice to see you in such a good mood tonight, love."

"Oh, not this again - "

"Oi, don't start. I've been worried about you." It's odd, having people that worry about him after so long looking out for number one and acting like he never needed anybody. Makes him uncomfortable and itchy but warm at the same time, a kind of grudging fondness. "You've barely been sleeping, the bags under your eyes look like they're ready to get collected - and don't you dare try tell me this is man trouble, it's far more serious than that."

Brendan tips his head into his hand and leans heavy, _feels_ heavy. The sharing and caring doesn't come easily to him but he's so bone-achingly tired, so fucking fed up; he hasn't seen or heard from Steven since Monday with the exception of one text this afternoon explaining in zero detail how Steven wasn't coming to Chemistry and not to worry. Doug and Amy had skipped, too, so he hadn't worried. He had, however, felt trampled like an army of jack-booted soldiers had marched over him in a two hour, single line procession.

Will had been there, though. Disappointed at Steven's absence, no chance to catch Brendan slipping up. He hadn't so much as lifted his hand the entire two hours, disconcerting to say the least. Peaceful if nothing else.

He doesn't even think he's got it in him to get angry anymore anyway, Anne's right, he hasn't slept. Friday night looms like a dark sun over a ravaged, post-apocalyptic wasteland horizon and without Steven, he just doesn't - he can't -

- he can't remember his own strength; it's leeched out of him and left him weak and shaky and too ready to give in, to let himself sink.

"It's - it's Eoghan," he says on a sigh, goes for unburdening just _one _of his problems and only because he's desperate enough to try anything. "You know how he's a sleaze?" Anne nods with a frown. "Well, me ever working again has basically everything to do with me lettin' him fuck me."

"Oh, God," she breathes, lips curling down, disgusted. "No. He's at it again."

"Again?"

"He used to do this a lot to substitute staff and young trainees and the like, but one woman got up the courage to report him. Martha, her name was. She made it all official, it went on for months, but Eoghan's got friends at the top and in the end Martha got _let go _with an hefty payout and a sound _keep your mouth shut, _and Eoghan got some report filed away, never to be seen again. We all thought it'd made him more careful or that one of the Governors had warned him to calm down or somethin' but - looks like he's at it again."

"Christ, so what? He got his way with all of 'em?"

"I don't know about all, nobody ever really spoke about it openly, y'know? But - " Anne touches his hand on the table. He hadn't even noticed his eyes were shut. "There's a security camera in his office for a reason, Brendan. Nobody's gonna nick a bunch of files. Nancy's told us some awful stories about - about - walking in on him watching recordings - "

"_Anne, stop - _" He's cringing, skin crawling, he'd wondered about the camera but not that, anything but that.

"You could report him, that'd be two and who know how many more on the sly?"

She says it because there's nothing else to say, it's a platitude more than anything, a placeholder. Hopeless words for a hopeless situation. Even if Steven wasn't involved, Brendan wouldn't.

"We're goin' out Friday," he says, reedy and hollow. "Couldn't keep sayin' no."

Anne grips his hand harder. "What you gonna do?"

"Try not to punch him?"

"Brendan - "

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Brendan exhales, shakes off Anne's pink-painted fingers, diamond ring and all. "I'll handle it. I always do."

"Yeah, well - " she gets this look on her face, thoughtful and determined. "I'm gonna help you find a way out of this, I promise."

It's his turn to protest, "Anne, I don't want - "

"Shut up," and he does, just like that, ends up smirking at her because for that one second she reminded him of his nana. "Friends look out for each other."

"Look, I appreciate the sentiment, I do, but I don't know how much you can help. I don't want you puttin' your job at risk."

"I've worked there a long time, Brendan. I know a thing or two. I'm sick of him getting away with the things he does in that place." She looks it, too. Like this might have been the last straw or something. "Don't count me out just because I've the looks and personality of an angel."

"Yeah, _that_ was my main concern."

"My sister robbed a diamond merchant, don't forget," Anne tells him with a finger pointed right between his eyes. "We've got a touch of the dangerous about us, us Minnivers."

"You've got a touch of the terrible taste in men about you."

He gets a smack for that and it's followed by a flood of unexpected relief; a problem halved and all that, this sharing thing not all so daunting now he's kind of unburdened himself, not all the way but it's something and apparently that's better than nothing.

"Riley's - well, he's gettin' better."

"The other day you told me you wished he'd go bald."

Anne snorts into her wine and mops up her chin with a napkin. "That was then."

"Oh, but you've shagged him since then, right?"

She half smiles and shrugs, _maybe_, "I don't kiss and tell, Brendan, come on. I'm a perfect lady."

"I've seen far too many of your weird sex injuries for you to use that line on me, darlin'," he drawls, tips back in his seat, feels looser, glass of wine in one hand, the other curled over the inside of his thigh, a smile-shaped, fading purple mark of his own hidden under his clothes, his own testament to Steven and the things they do.

They fall into it easily, get through dessert and another bottle of wine and Brendan offers Anne his arm when they go for a taxi, a nice and leisurely fifteen minute stroll through the cold night air. The pavement turns silver under their feet with collecting frost. The sky feels swollen with snow. It's December soon, he's in the home stretch. Time to start thinking about booking the trip for him and Cheryl to Ireland, about presents for the kids, about what on this green earth to buy a woman who's sister can steal her diamonds and -

- where, _if, _Steven fits into all of this.

His nana used to say things like _anything worth having's worth fighting for _and _valuable things don't come cheap _and she had a million like that, he'd rolled his eyes and put it down to her era, all old wives tales and proverbs to live by. Then Declan was born after a fourteen hour labour, Eileen rushed off to the emergency operating theatre to get cut open because she was suddenly bleeding everywhere and Brendan had held his boy and for the first time, he'd been able to admit maybe there was something in that sentiment.

So he gets Anne in the first taxi and pays the driver straight off, because his nana also raised him a gentleman, and he thinks about Steven, he thinks about the things worth salvaging.

* * *

It's five AM.

It's five AM and he can't _breathe._

Logic doesn't kick in until at least five-o-five so he spends minutes in the dark, cold sweat and full body _ache_ from how bad he'd shaken apart breaking the surface of his nightmare.

They've always been vivid, ever since he was a teenager. He'd read somewhere, on his endless search for _reasons, _whys and why mes and some way to expel these demons that didn't involve one extreme end of some invisible spectrum, therapy or murder, that he was post trauma and it might go on for years. His nightmares weren't always about big hands holding him down or whiskey-sour breath on the back of his neck, though; sometimes they were borderline fucking average, being chased, monsters under the bed. He'd dreamt about an alien invasion a few times, that had been pretty cool.

They're always worse when his head's stuffed full of the steel-wool scratch of tension, everything gets tangled up in there and his nightmares are like a subconscious, full-body purge.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, stands and half staggers to his window and flings it all the way open. Cold air assaults him like needles in his skin but it's good, he needs it. He's got a bad case of dry mouth and a banging headache and even looking out at the world, the sparse and softly falling snow and the blanket sky with that strange orange tint white weather brings to the dark, he can still see the details:

Standing in his lab when two police officers burst in, two men who look suspiciously like his da's mates, those big brothers who used to live down the Raglan Road. He can still remember they had fucked up knuckles from years of illegal cage fighting and one of them, the oldest, had a crooked nose and one cheekbone permanently sunk in under his eye socket, gave him the appearance of something melted. The youngest had said _Brendan Brady, you're under arrest for the sexual assault of one of your students _and grabbed him, one arm each, and Brendan had struggled, a litany of _nonononono._ He'd looked at Steven for some kind of assurance but Steven hadn't been able to meet his gaze, had looked down at the table, at his twisting hands.

He'd looked small and terrified and his eyes were wet, tear after tear falling down against the bench but without a sound like something from a silent film.

Brendan had known, in that dream-like way that you _know _things, that it was him that Steven was afraid of, and now he's sick with what's left, that stale, clinging residue that he won't shake now, not before his alarm goes off.

Even if he could go back to sleep he wouldn't want to; there's a lot of what-ifs in his life right now but that one's a dead cert. He perches against the windowsill and presses his forehead to the cold plastic frame and lets the chill in until he's got goosebumps.

The room's too quiet and the snow falls without a sound and he sees Steven's silent tears in the night.

* * *

Two-fifty, two-fifty-five, three, three-five, three-ten, three-fifteen.

The minutes pass in increments of five.

He checks his watch one second, checks it a second later and he's lost a whole one twelfth of an hour.

He thinks about the nature of relativity. It's a toss up: either his time is relative to the warping influence of the sheer mass of his stress or he's simply collapsed the laws of physics because the universe really does hate him that much.

Either way, the bell goes and he vaguely shoos his lower sixth class off and thinks about staying behind to do a bit of marking, just something like a distraction, but ends up sitting at his desk for twenty minutes doing nothing more than considering it.

He measures the twenty minutes by the sound of his door opening, the jolt that shudders up his spine and the hand on his watch when he says, a hoarse protest, "it's twenty five to four," as if that means anything.

Steven shrugs. He's got his coat on and he smells like ozone and that's little details but they seem important. He's brought the breeze in, he's cool and fresh and pink faced and so fucking beautiful Brendan wants to press against him, absorb it all as a balm.

It's been four days since Brendan last saw him and he's caught off guard and raw to the effect Steven has on him, guard down and in a bad way. There's this awful silence that sounds like screaming, stretches on and on until Brendan's skin feels tight and his head's about to explode.

Then Steven's lips turn up in an awful sneer and he says, "oh, yeah, sorry, I don't wanna make you late for your date," and he feels like Steven's slapped him.

"Don't you dare," Brendan rasps, rough enough to grind down that sneer into dust. What's left in its wake is even more devastating; Steven's eyes dull and dark-rimmed, his mouth pinched tightly. Brendan can't bear to look at his face but he can't look away either so he just lets it hurt instead. "I don't know what you want me to say, Steven," and that's honest, nobody's hiding behind that statement.

"Are you gonna sleep with him?" is apparently what Steven wants to know and in some small way Brendan's glad he's cut straight to the point.

"No. I don't - know."

"Right."

Steven turns to leave like that's the only thing he came for, to see Brendan's reaction to that question, coat and ozone and his bag still on his shoulder because - what? he knew that Brendan would disappoint him? It was an inevitability all along? Eventually Brendan would let him down, he's just been waiting for the moment, coat on and one foot out the door, just in case? Whatever, he isn't staying with Brendan and that's just not good enough and it's a powerful surge of _move, urgently, now _that gets him skidding out of his seat like his boy's not his own and maybe that right there's the answer to what all this means to him.

It's like two months ago all over again and Brendan's got one hand slamming the door shut out of Steven's grasp. He's parking his body in front of it and hot to Steven's proximity and if he could turn back this relentlessly churning clock he doesn't know what he'd change.

Probably nothing.

"Don't go, don't - I need - " Brendan stutters on a breath and Steven's face _breaks _into desperate hope so fucking fragile he suddenly looks too young for all of this. "I need you. You're why, why I've gotta do all this."

"Don't put it on me, Brendan."

"I'm not," he says quickly, sharp, Steven listens because Brendan's demanding it. "I'm not putting it on you, this is all me, all my choice. But. Without you it's pointless."

It's the first time he's said it out loud and Steven stares for long seconds then falls, _reels_ away from him like he's been forced back by something huge. Brendan supposes he has. He runs both hands through his hair, ruffles it up into all directions, breathes like he's run a race. Brendan doesn't know what it all means so he stays silent and waits him out, here against the door, blocking the only exit whilst Steven has a caged-animal breakdown.

"You want me to just be okay with - with my - with _you -_ sleeping with some other bloke because he's threatening to ruin both our lives and then just goin' on like normal?"

"I didn't say I was gonna sleep with him."

"But that's the price, innit? That's what's gonna keep his mouth shut? He's not just askin' you out to talk about how it might go down, Brendan! How did you really think tonight was gonna end?"

Steven's shouting now, kind of hysterical, gesturing, throwing his arms out. Brendan can't move, he's like a pinned butterfly against the wood. All he can do is hiss, "will you keep your fucking voice down?"

So Steven presses his lips together, furious and trembling, then whispers exaggeratedly, "well?"

"What choice do I have?" Steven's anger tells him _none _because he's not angry at Brendan, not really. He's angry because that's the answer. None. "Just don't - don't - "

He can't say the fucking words, he can't ask because he doesn't know how; he's not good at begging, not good at being worth enough to bargain for the things he wants.

It's okay, though; Steven knows the words and he's so much braver than Brendan. "_Fucks sake_, Brendan." His voice cracks and breaks on Brendan's name then he sighs, "I'm not gonna leave you."

Steven comes wearily but there's no hesitation, only that same tiredness that's in Brendan. Brendan reaches out to touch and Steven's wearing too many layers, Brendan can't feel him like he needs to. He slips his fingers around Steven's jaw to get his hands on skin, draws him close and presses his lips to Steven's forehead to inhale the scent of him.

Steven presses into him, melts there tucked up under Brendan's chin and then it's perfect, then it's exactly what he needs, just closeness, intimacy. Steven fitted against him and Brendan's arm all the way around him, one hand curling fingers through his hair, against the back of his neck, spreading and gripping like a compulsion. Steven's breath inside his collar, a soft puff of warm air that soaks through the chill of an entire week spent wondering, waiting for something to break.

There's this speckled fuzz of space between them that Brendan doesn't know how to patch. He wants to ask _are we gonna be okay? _but he's scared of the answer. The threat of loss is such a sharp sensation, muffled and peripheral before but now it's vivid in his head-on vision. Steven's a tangible thing in his arms, solid and necessary; he's a possibility, he could vanish at any moment and leave Brendan with enough empty air to choke on. He's never felt as close to something before, one road to ruin and another someplace better, something he can touch, another solid possibility.

Everything's so precarious and he's terrified, blood gaining up a rush like he hasn't felt all week, all that urgency like a flood. It's powerful and it makes him _feel_ powerful. Steven's energy and Brendan's cupping his neck with both hands, drawing him impossibly close and drinking down everything he can take.

Steven clings, hands curled in Brendan's shirt at his sides, opens his lips in a soft, hitching breath. He's still cool to touch, winter air in his lungs, but Brendan's searing on fire, kind of manic with it, slicking his tongue into Steven's mouth and half trembling with a fever. It does nothing to help. His synapses fire on all cylinders with the familiar softness, the learned give and shape and taste. He's been too long without because he's addicted, to Steven's voice and kisses and presence and smell, the fit of him in Brendan's hands. It's worse than the sentiment and emotion, it's a physical thing, a palpable yearning so deep it's clawing at his insides, this heavy tug behind his ribs that pulls them into each other's orbit.

Steven's eighteen and it's been _days;_ he's hard and rubbing against Brendan and what did he expect? They're here again, surrounded by danger at every turn and too drunk on each other to be smart.

He's overwhelmed by the swelling surge of need, basic and fundamental. He's murmuring into the damp corner of Steven's mouth, "not here, not here, Christ, not here," but his shifting, spreading, fucking _accommodating_ legs are telling a different story, the air sticky-hot with how much he wants it.

And Steven's _right there, _line of his dick pressing snug up against Brendan's own, material too smooth to get any friction so it's tortuous, bordering on frantic. He's already delirious, has been for days now, can't take it, this knife-edge uncertainty. Then Steven's falling to his knees, hands tearing at Brendan's belt and buttons, half shrugging out of his coat because he's flushed and hot now, Brendan can feel it the way the cool air from the lab whooshes back in to touch against the burning line Steven left against his front.

"Steven, no," he's saying, choking, shaking his head but doing _nothing _to stop this, nothing to stop Steven's hands curling in his boxers, nothing to stop Steven's lips open wet against his hip, teeth sinking in and sucking and biting, marking him up and it hits him, why, _fuck, _Steven's putting ownership on his body and he needsto fucking stop this but he can't.

Steven's hand curls around his dick, pumps him slow. Brendan's head falls back against the door and he doesn't know what to do with his hands, nails scraping on the wood and then across Steven's scalp and back again, quick between the two. There's just this and nothing else, Steven chewing up his skin sore and savage and his hand a steady growing rhythm that builds and builds like the laying of brickwork, layers of foundation and cement for the creeping-ivy climb of pressure across his hips and up his spine. Steven won't yield, won't take Brendan's desperately straining hips as directive.

He slips in and out from deep-throbbing pleasure to snarling frustration, Steven rough then smooth, whole fist curling around him and just the rub of his thumb over and over the head of his cock and still that mouth working the skin of his hips and belly until he's almost begging, can't breathe with it.

"Steven, fuck, come on, please - "

- and then Steven's other hand's moving from its place curled around the bottom of his back so quick his nails skip and sting through patches of Brendan's skin like skimming pebbles over water.

There's the rustle of material and he dares look down but desperately wishes he hadn't; Steven on his knees with his own hand wrapped around himself, flushed red and disappearing over and over into the tight curl of his fist. Steven's eyes up and blazing, bottom lip pressed soft to his stomach and mouth damp and open, puffing breath against the chewed-up, spit-slick of his skin. Brendan jerks in Steven's still-solid grip around his dick, fists a hand in Steven's hair, looks into his eyes and says it again deliberately, "please," and watches how it makes his eyelashes flutter and his breath hitch.

Steven tucks his face down and away and into the joint of Brendan's thigh, close_, _so fucking close to where Brendan wants him, and Brendan feels him shudder, hears him whimper and _watches _him come over his own fist and across the floor.

He's trying to coordinate his own fingers around Steven's jaw, wants to turn his face up to look at him, to say something, _are you okay _or just _fuck _because Steven came in less than a minute from the sound of Brendan's voice but he's recovered too quickly and when he tips his head back and looks up there's no trace of vulnerability left there, just blinding intensity that gets Brendan's balls tightening.

He feels like he's about to suffer some glorious punishment and then Steven's moving his hand again, hard, full strokes up and down, fist tight and rough pleasure knife-edged with pain. Steven doesn't look away from him, just rubs his lips and nose through the hair on his stomach until Brendan's straining with the effort not to move, thighs shaking and knees going wobbly.

Every exhale turns into a humiliatingly needy noise and Steven whispers against him, "close?" and he nods, tries to swallow down the type of groan that might get them heard. Then Steven's on him, lips stretching over the head of his cock and tongue pressing and curling against the underside, suction all the way down until his lips press against his still moving fist; he's got every inch covered, working Brendan over like he's on a mission.

He chokes out, "I'm gonna - " and then Steven's hand's gone, taking Brendan down so deep, throat fluttering and flat swipe of his tongue milking the orgasm out of him until he's clawing at Steven's scalp with his other hand curled into a fist between his teeth. He chews on his knuckle and comes helplessly into the tight grip of Steven's throat.

Steven's breathing hard on the floor, Adam's apple bobbing and his mouth shining wet, sticky, obscene with it. Makes Brendan dizzy and light headed until his arse hits the tiles where he's slid down the door at his back, Steven knelt between his splayed legs. Boy's all mussed and pretty, hair a spiky mess from Brendan's hands and lips red and puffy. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright but not, Brendan realises with a jolt, with anything remotely good; he's got this look like fervour, still.

He's shuffling closer and reaching out with shaking hands to pull Brendan's untucked shirt up and off of his stomach and when Brendan looks, he's thrown off his balance so violently the floor lurches up.

Steven's bruised and bloodied him good, a wave of deep purple marks spread over his hip bone and inwards, across half of his lower stomach and right down into the joint of his leg. There's pinpricks of blood from broken skin. Brendan's dick throbs with it and that shouldn't be the reaction but Steven's face is a heated challenge, _fucking say something about it, I fucking dare you,_ but he can't.

His hand's moving of its own volition, fitting his fingertips into the bites and pressing until it twinges and he's hissing a breath through his teeth. It's a tapestry of just how fucked up his life is and him and Steven study it like a work of art.

Eventually, Steven stands with his joints cracking, bends to picks up his things and sways a bit on his feet. He's pulling on his coat and Brendan's heaving himself off the floor because he suddenly doesn't know what's happening.

"You're going?"

"Well, you've got somewhere to be, an't you?"

Steven's face is impressively impassive, whatever it is he's feeling, whatever the fuck just _happened, _he's hidden it well. He can't hide the tremble in his voice, though, or the shine of damp in his eyes. Brendan stands beside the door and Steven slings his bag on his shoulder. When he comes close the pressure in the room _whumps _like the weighted force of a free-falling lift.

Steven doesn't look anywhere higher than Brendan's chest. There's two inches of space between them charged up with electricity and Brendan can smell thick sex and longing all over him. Steven inhales, eyes slipping shut, all sluggish and slow and Brendan feels drunk, can't speak around his swollen tongue. Heat and breath and the click of Steven's throat when he swallows, face close enough and turned down at an angle that all Brendan can see is the slope of his nose and the smudge of his eyelashes.

Like a dream, Steven sways into Brendan's body. His hand curls over Brendan's hip and presses into the bruises he's left and Brendan moans low in the back of his throat.

"You were mine first," Steven murmurs and looks up and it's the most exhilarating thing, possessive and so fucking serious, another challenge Brendan can't deny.

Then he's gone, slipping quietly out of the door the way he does _nothing _quietly, like a ghost, unnerving as hell.

Brendan's left with a blazing hot shiver running the length of his spine.

* * *

It's ten minutes to eight.

He's sat under the low sconce lights in the Bohemia, took a corner seat so he can look out across the entire room with a full view of the door.

His phone's going off again.

He's already had Anne earlier, going on at him for twenty minutes with her ridiculous plans like _throw yourself down the stairs and try break a leg_ and _tell him a family member's died_. She'd hung up with a plea, _don't do it, Brendan, please, I'm workin' on it, I promise, _but he'd never doubted her intent and he tells her as much.

He'd been grateful for the chat. Anything to calm his prickly nerves and over-hyped senses; frustration and dread and still half reeling from Steven's words in the lab, from his greedy hands and his hot mouth and the marks he's branded Brendan with like ownership that he _shouldn't _get this kind of a thrill off but it's weird, he's carrying them like a shield. He's got this reckless feeling of being completely alive when he presses down and makes them ache, some shadow of what he feels when he's got Steven pressed up against him.

It's a message from Cheryl and he's shot through with anger tinged by the bitter after-taste of guilt because that's not what he was hoping for.

_we can take the boys to mansion house nativity if u get here by the 22nd x_

An hour ago he'd found out him and Cheryl have got the boys in Dublin over Christmas and until Boxing Day and even that had done little to cheer him up. It feels like years away or an event from someone else's life, distance on his horizon.

He fires off a quick reply - _sounds good sis x - _and goes back to bouncing his knee and tapping his fingers against his glass of Wild Turkey and as shite as that stuff actually tastes, it's about the right percentage alcohol to kill off a good few of his brain cells quickly so he can at least _try _and focus on one thing at a time.

Eoghan is, predictably, late.

He saunters in an expensive, tailored jacket and carefully, artfully distressed jeans that make Brendan want to punch him. Brendan sees him do a surreptitious glance around the room and feels the sharp cut of his gaze when Eoghan catches him.

He's got a glass of something expensive when he slips into the chair opposite Brendan, something dark and heavy spiced, smell of it faintly suffocating and nothing like that sweet, fresh air smell he's craving right now.

"You showed up," Eoghan drawls with a raised eyebrow.

"You weren't expecting me to?"

"I was - dubious. You're a hard man to pin down, Brendan."

He gets the insinuation and it makes his stomach squirm. "I wouldn't know, most men wouldn't try."

"Most men don't have the leverage." Eoghan takes down half his glass then smiles, casual and friendly like if Brendan didn't know who Eoghan was he might think he was harmless. "But we're starting out a bit heavy here, aren't we? I said I wanted us to get to know each other."

"It ruins the sense of discovery a bit when you've already shown your hand."

Eoghan leans over the table, light catching his pale eyes, and says in a low voice like dripping honey, "will you loosen up? We don't know how tonight's gonna end, there's no pressure here, Brendan. This is just you and me, finding some common ground. And later, who knows?"

Brendan hates him, could rip his fucking throat out. He lifts and tips his glass in a toast and pulls his lips into a smirk, "to finding common ground, then," and Eoghan clinks their glasses together.

They drink deep, glasses empty and slamming back onto the tabletop. Eoghan does that horrible finger-snapping thing to pull a passing barmaid over, her face stiff with exactly how much she appreciates the treatment.

"Two glasses of your single malt, sweetheart," he says but his eyes never leave Brendan's so Brendan doesn't look away either. "So, family?"

Brendan could roll his eyes but he doesn't. "Ex wife, two boys, one sister. You?"

"You've got kids?"

He sounds genuinely surprised.

"So what?"

"Nothing, that's sweet. Don't have much by the way of family myself, just a sister back in Belfast." Eoghan takes the glasses from the barmaid and hands her a five but still doesn't even spare her a glance. "A toast to sisters, then."

Brendan knows what he's playing at but he plays along regardless, it's all he can do, helpless here, taking Eoghan's lead and following blindly and hoping he'll notice in time to hit the brakes when Eoghan leads him straight off a cliff.

They chatter, idle on the surface but with simmering intent, no innocent exchange because Eoghan's so fucking sharp Brendan can't let himself slip for one second and everything turns into a rejoinder like he's in fucking court. His head bangs with it, shoulders aching from the tension of being on guard.

Even the alcohol won't dull his over-heightened senses, can't calm him down.

Eoghan likes to talk about himself and that's lucky, a needed reprieve. Brendan gets him on a good, long spiel about New York, a place he clearly loves. There's a passion in his eyes when he talks and Brendan thinks, maybe in another life, maybe if Eoghan was twisted in different ways, Brendan might have enjoyed his company.

He wants to know about Dublin in return so Brendan tells him about the bars, the attractions. It's shallow stuff until he lets slip, "my dad had a pub," and then he chokes on it and Eoghan's like a viper the way he strikes into the vulnerable chink.

"_Had _a pub?"

"Y - yeah, he's getting too old for all that now, though."

"You didn't mention him, I thought he'd passed on."

"We're not close. I haven't seen him in years."

"Any reason?"

Brendan folds both his arms on the table and leans closer, dips his head and says, "no," like he fucking means it.

"Come on, Brendan. No father, specially not a," and then Eoghan coughs politely into his fist, "_good_, pure blooded Irishman, wants to know about how much his son loves cock, do they?"

Brendan's eyes fall half-mast to his drink, fourth or sixth, maybe seventh, can't remember, can't even remember how long he's been here, and he scrapes a scoff through his sticky throat, feels dark and slick inside his veins with something close to dangerous.

"That so?"

"I know what it's like, Brendan. They look at us different." Us. They're a fucking _us_ now. Eoghan's fingers brush against Brendan's wrist, so delicate it could be a breeze, hair all up his arm standing straight up with the chill of it. It's the first time, surprisingly, that Eoghan's touched him all night. "It's tough, confusing. You carry it with you forever, the disappointment in his eyes."

He looks into Eoghan's face, all that shining faux-emotion and maybe some of it's real, maybe he uses those real bits of himself and twists them up into ways of getting what he wants just like the best con men do; Brendan would know. He says _you _like the old tried-and-true, said it a million times to a million different faces.

Brendan grips his glass tight in one hand and leans back into the cracked-leather sound of his chair, slips his fingers under his shirt and touches Steven's bruises. It's a head-fuck, a dizzy, soaring feeling of freedom pinned beneath the weighted snare of Eoghan's focus.

"Yeah, it's difficult," Brendan tells him softly, flutters his eyes like a whisper. Stomach lurching and skin tingling with a steady rising righteous fury like he's drawing it from his fingertips pressing into the sweet, solid ache at his hip. "Not many people get it."

Eoghan lights up like Blackpool fucking illuminations and all it does it stoke the fire burning low in Brendan's gut. He circles Brendan's wrist with his entire hand, thumb to fingers, and speaks sweetly, soft tone to match Brendan's to bring them both into the same line.

"I do, Brendan. Better than anyone."

"Yeah?"

"We're the same. I knew it the second I met you."

"Maybe we should start a club, hmm? Irish, likes dick, daddy issues?"

Eoghan laughs indulgently. His fingers stroke a languid back and forth across Brendan's skin. "Joke all you want but just think about how amazing it could be."

"All that common ground?"

"All that _connection_."

Eoghan think he's got him, so fucking sure of himself, Brendan can see it in the curve of his smile and the crinkle at the corners of his eyes and he feels reckless with the desire to destroy and the pleasure of the act. He presses the bruises, fits his fingers into the teeth marks, feels his heart rate kick up like crazy. Then he twists his hand and breaks Eoghan's grip to turn it back on him, Brendan's fingers tight around his skipping pulse.

He drags Eoghan across the table and catches the ripple of shock over his features this close up. "You talk pretty." Eoghan narrows his eyes and doesn't say a word. "You're good at this. Suppose you'd have to be, wouldn't you?"

"Brendan - "

"Shut up. You wanna fuck me, you don't gotta buy me drinks and sell me a fucking sob story, I'm not interested, Eoghan. Don't pretend this is more than what it is. You look me in the fucking eye and extort me properly like the rapist scum you really are, you bastard."

He can feel Steven _singing _in his veins, his words, his fire, the blazing blue of his eyes and the stubborn set of his mouth, Brendan's got it all right there, front and centre.

_You were mine first_.

And he smiles, right into Eoghan's shocked, reeling mug. Feels half crazy but good, his hip throbs in time with his heartbeat, resonating connection spurring him on.

"Say it. Come on, you're not shy all of a sudden?"

Eoghan pulls against him but Brendan won't let him go, thinks he might be burning some bruises of his own, and he's visibly trying to collect his composure but it's not coming easy.

"I told you, this is business, Brendan - a good deal," he grinds out.

"A good deal for _who _exactly?"

"Both of us," and they're inches apart and Eoghan snarls like a pitbull, real anger on both sides, everything narrowing down into this closed-in space of a moment that's running too high a fever for a public place. "Mostly you and yours, though. Can you imagine what's gonna happen to your boys when daddy's splashed all over the media coz he's going down for touching his students. Your own dad'll be so proud."

Brendan slams Eoghan's hand hard into the tabletop, bones grinding under his palm and the sneer on Eoghan's face widening. He's steeping in dawning horror, black of it spreading and crawling, curling all over him and folding him in. Eoghan, playing him again.

Except this time, he's had too much. He's buzzing with whiskey, reckless from emotions so strong they're welling up like a tide over all his fortifications. Eoghan's _nothing _in the face of it.

"Go fuck yourself, touch me again and I'll kill you, so help me God," he half growls, low and rough and so serious Eoghan looks stunned.

Brendan stands, chair scraping a horrible screech across the floorboards that skins over his nerves like torture. He's on his feet and out the door into cold, clear air, half slipping on frost as he gains his footing and tries not to shake apart. The sky's too open above him and he could let go and fall up into it, feels his stomach lurch at the shift in gravity.

Then he's grabbed and twisted and slammed against the brick wall, Eoghan's hands buried in Brendan's coat lapels.

"You have no idea who you're dealing with," Eoghan rasps, looks frenzied and flushed, crazy all tucked down and buried under layers of business and slick, cool smiles, but Brendan's baring witness to the real man now.

He shoves at Eoghan's chest but his arms end up folded awkwardly between them, Eoghan pressing all his weight in until he's got his lips hard over Brendan's. He bites down, Brendan gasps, he's got a mouth full of tongue and whiskey and he's blanking out dangerously, fuzzing black around the edges of his vision, that fucking submission in the face of such a powerful memory rearing its ugly head and dragging him down just like it always did but he won't - he can't -

Eoghan doubles over, Brendan's knee catching him sharp in his crotch.

There's a split-second of complete madness, Brendan out of control, adrenaline rush and blood blistering like acid, fingers itching, lungs squeezed dry. He's got Eoghan at his mercy and it's too powerful a thing, too tempting. He can't be trusted with that kind of vulnerability or he'll fucking do it, he'll take every inch, and Eoghan would deserve it, Brendan's fist cracking a cheekbone, Brendan's hand smacking his head off the brick wall of the bar, Brendan made a promise and he could keep it and no higher power would judge him for the act. There's nobody here to stop him.

But then -

_It's you, you're important._

And the fork in the path opens up, one bright horizon and Steven with his hand out for Brendan to take. The other twisting off into scarred terrain, clawing bushes and falling ash over a ruined sky. It's all Brendan, his choice, his actions, the kind of man he wants to be forever and all decided in this split-second moment.

He balls his trembling fingers into fists, feels everything quaking, right down to the base of his spine.

Then he walks away.

"I'll see you next week, Brendan," Eoghan calls, voice a pathetic whine but Brendan hears it loud and clear. "Run through your official complaint with you. I'll be in touch."

Brendan doesn't dignify him with a response, just walks and walks and breathes in the crippling-cold air and feels the ground open up into a wide rush of yawning _nothing _beneath his footsteps, euphoric and terrified, free-falling finally and in another split-second and on nothing more than an insane whim, he takes a left.

On the way he pulls out his phone and fires off a text to Anne that it takes him a dozen attempts to write out:

_hope you're working on something good right about now or i'm a dead man x_

* * *

_Crack._

He's fifteen, he's actually fucking fifteen.

_Crack._

He's shaking still, strung out like he's had too much sugar.

_Crack._

Can't believe what he's done, what he's doing. He's fucking lost his mind and running with it, committing his own peculiar brand of _hara-kiri._

___Crack._

The window finally swings open and Brendan can't breath for as long as it takes for Steven to lean over the ledge into the glow of a far-off street lamp, the soft-white of the moon and faint stars. He's all mussed, hair sticking up and in nothing but a t-shirt against the cold.

"Brendan?" His voice is a rough whisper. "It's middle of the night, are you mad?"

It's a good question, valid.

Brendan flings his arms out and grins but it seizes like a desperate rictus. "I didn't do it."

He can't make out Steven's face too well in the low light and it tears at him, the silence that follows enough that he wants to scream into it.

Then Steven's vanished, reappearing again quickly, slinging one leg out over the ledge and grabbing for the guttering, trainers and hoodie on all of a sudden like Brendan's missing great patches of time every time he blinks. Steven jumps the last four feet and moves, skids to a halt in front of Brendan like a flickering character from an old film reel, all of it happening out of his control, _everything_ out of his control.

"Steven," he reaches out and catches soft material and a handful of hair and pulls and pulls and doesn't care that it's too hard.

"Fuckin' hell, are you okay?" He's leaning instantly into Brendan's space and he's so warm, clean soap and laundry and sleep smell, perfect fit here where he belongs and Brendan doesn't think he's ever felt this awed at the sight of him. "You said you didn't - "

"I'm not, I didn't," Brendan breathes, barely there over a cloud of moisture. He's touching everywhere, Steven's neck and throat and jaw, slipping hands under his t-shirt to press against the warm skin of his back, hands like they're not his own anymore just searching for an anchor. He can't grip, he can't stop reeling, and the words bubble up out of fucking nowhere, untempered by his loosing hold and he tips his head to Steven's and whispers, "I love you," like he's drowning.

Like a dream-haze, Steven's eyes go wide, glassy under the moon. Brendan shuts his own against it, just lets the lurch of the world finally take him, the roar of that violent ocean crash and toss him like a ragdoll because he's helpless anyway, what use is fighting anymore.

There's freedom in his surrender and it's beautiful.

"I love you, too," Steven says, shaking under Brendan's hands but they both are and Brendan can't tell where he ends and Steven begins anymore. "Brendan, look at me," so he does and there it is, solid like a bulwark. "I love you."

Steven surges blindly into him, catches him in a messy, desperate kiss, and holds him together.


End file.
